AUGUST STRINDBERG (continued 2)

About half-past eight he was about to go, but she only needed to express a suspicion that he was longing for the café to make him remain. About half-past nine o'clock he was going again but was kept back.

"But," he remonstrated, "it is my part as the elder and more prudent to spare you any unpleasantness."

She understood nothing, but declared that she was independent and that the lady who kept the pension was accustomed to her suppers.

At last his instinct told him that it was a mistake to stay longer; he rose and took his leave. On his way home, he said to himself, "No, people are not so simple, and cannot be labelled by formulas, for I don't comprehend an atom of this evening or of this woman."

The next time they met it was in a museum. Her outer dress made her look like a young married woman of thirty or more. Her mouth had a tired expression and had fine little wrinkles near it, as is the case with those who laugh often. But she was melancholy, hinted at having had a breach with her father, and spoke of taking her departure shortly. She inquired regarding her friend's relations to theatres and publishers, and offered to help him with advice and influence. To-day she was mere motherly tenderness, and a certain carelessness in her toilet suggested that she did not want to please as a woman.

But when she proposed that they should go to the theatre together he declined, from a feeling that he ought not to compromise her, nor expose himself to danger, for his precarious pecuniary position did not permit him to think of a love affair.

He proposed to her instead that they should go for a stroll together, and she suggested that he should escort her from her new lodging, for she had changed her rooms.

("They have given her notice at the pension, because of me," he thought, but said nothing.)

By this time his curiosity as an author was aroused, and he wished to learn the riddle of this woman, for he had never seen any other change their appearance as she did.

When in the evening he rang at her door, he was shown into a side room and asked to wait. When she was dressed he was let out into the front hall, where they met. This, then, was a new order of things.

They went westward by an empty street which led to the Zoological Gardens, and entered a restaurant which she seemed to know well. In her fur jacket and with a kerchief on her head she looked in the dark like an old woman, and as she stooped somewhat, she seemed to have something witchlike about her. But when they entered the well-lit restaurant, and she laid aside kerchief and jacket she stood revealed all at once in her youthful beauty. A moss-green, tightly fitting dress showed the figure of a girl of eighteen, and with her hair brushed smooth, she looked like an overgrown schoolgirl. He could not conceal his astonishment at this witchery, and looked her all over as though he were seeking a concealed enemy with a searchlight. ("Eros! Now I am lost!" he thought. And from that moment he was indeed.)

She saw quite well the effect she had produced, and seemed to glisten there in a sort of phosphorescent light, sure of victory, with a triumphant expression round her mouth, for she saw that he was conquered. He felt a sudden fear. She had his soul in her pocket, and could cast it into the river or into the gutter; therefore he hated her at the same time. He saw that his only chance of safety lay in awakening a reciprocal flame in her, so that she might be as closely bound to him as he was to her. With this half-conscious purpose, he did what every man in his place would have done—insinuated himself into her confidence, made himself as little as a child and aroused her sympathy, the sympathy of a woman for a lacerated and damned soul which has no more hope of happiness. She listened to him and received his confidence as a tribute, with calm majestic motherliness, without a trace of coquetry or pleasure at hearing of another's misfortune.

When at last, after eating a cold supper, they were about to go, he rose to look up a train in a railway guide. When he returned to the table and wished to pay the bill, the waiter informed him that it had already been paid by the lady! Then he flared up, and wrongly suspecting that she thought he had no money, demanded that at any rate he should pay for himself.

"I don't know the customs of your country," he said, "but in mine a man who lets a lady pay for him is dishonoured."

"You were my guest," she answered.

"No, we went out together, and we cannot come here again. Don't you know what kind of a reputation you will give me, and by what a hateful name this waiter may call me?"

When he recalled the waiter to make good the mistake, there was another scene, so that he rose angrily and laid his share on the table. She was sad, but would not acknowledge herself in the wrong. They were both out of humour, and he noticed that she was thoughtless, just as thoughtless as when she invited a gentleman alone to her room so late in the evening. Or was it an expression of feminine independence demanding to be treated exactly like a man in spite of propriety and prejudice? Perhaps it was the latter, but he fell it to be a piece of presumption, and was angry. There threatened to be an uncomfortable silence between them as they walked home, but she put out her hand and said in a kind, confidential voice: "Don't be cross."

"No I am not that, but, but ... never do it again."

They parted as friends, and he hurried to the café. He had not been there for a long time, partly through a certain dislike to the tone prevailing there, which no longer harmonised with his present mood, and partly because he had promised his friend to be moderate. He found the usual company, but felt somewhat out of place, and made a clear resolve never to bring her there. Accordingly, he soon went home and sank in meditations which were partly gloomy and partly bright. When he recollected the moment of emergence of the youthful beauty from the fur skin of the animal there seemed to him something weird and ominous about it. It was not the youthful beauty which is clothed in reflections from a paradise of innocence, but a dark, demoniac beauty which becomes a man's death, the grave of his virile will, and which leads to humiliation, ruin, and disgraceful bargaining. But it is as inevitable and unescapable as Fate.

The next day he was invited, together with her, to dinner at an art professor's. She then appeared in a new character, talking like a woman of the world in a confident tone, firing off smart sayings and epigrams and never at a loss for an answer. At intervals she seemed indifferent, blase, and cruel.

The professor, who had just been sitting on a jury, told us that he had joined in giving a verdict of guilty against a child murderess.

"I should have acquitted her," said Miss X——. The professor, who belonged to the Danish Academy and had the entree to the Court, was astonished, but did not argue with her. He construed her answer as a burst of caprice and let the matter drop. The conversation at table was somewhat forced. The Norwegian, who had been invited by the lady of the house, did not feel at ease in this circle where everything revolved round the Court. Probably his friend had arranged this invitation with the kind intention of making him known and of investing him, who had the reputation of being half an anarchist, with an air of gentility. The discord was felt when the talk turned upon Art, and the professor was in a minority of one with his opinions and academic ideals.

Therefore, when at dessert time his hostess asked the Norwegian whether he would come to one of her receptions, where he would have the opportunity of meeting many celebrities, she received such a sharp look from her husband, that the Norwegian declined the invitation decidedly. Just then the Scandinavians were in ill favour in the higher circles of society because a Norwegian artist by his new style of painting had caused a schism in the Academy.

Again he had let himself be enticed by his friend's thoughtlessness. She had brought him into a circle to which he did not belong and in which he was not welcome. On the other hand she seemed to notice nothing of it, but was as much at home and at her ease as before.

After dinner there was music. The young beauty behaved as though her friend was not there and never looked at him at all. When the party broke up, she took leave of him as though of a stranger, and let herself be escorted home by someone else.

II

It was a Sunday afternoon in February. They were walking in one of the outer streets of the city towards the west, where they were sure to meet no acquaintances. Finally they entered a restaurant which lay off the road. She spoke of her approaching departure, and he said he would miss her society.

"Come along too," she said simply and openly.

"Yes," he answered, "it is really all the same to me where I stay."

That was an idea which seemed to drive away certain clouds. She now began to speak of Berlin, the theatrical prospects there, and so on.

"But," he objected, "it would be too far from my children."

"Your children! Yes, I have often thought of them. Have you their portraits with you? Do let me see them!"

He really had the portraits with him, and as she repeated her wish, he showed them. The two girls did not interest her much but she was delighted at the eight-year-old fair boy with the upturned look. "What a lovely child's face! Isn't it a happiness to have such a child!"

"To have it to-day, and lose to-morrow!" he replied.

She now examined the photograph more exactly and began to compare it with the father somewhat too closely. He began to feel some of that shyness which a man feels before a woman when she assumes this rôle.

"It is you," she said, "and not you also."

He asked for no explanation, and she requested that she might keep the portrait by her.

They resumed the discussion of the proposed journey, but she was absent-minded and often let her looks rest on the photograph.

He could not guess what was in her mind but he noticed that there was a struggle of some kind and that she was on the point of forming a resolution. He felt how a network of fine sucker-like tendrils spread from her being and wove itself into his. Something fateful was impending. He felt depressed, longed for the circle of male friends whom he had abandoned, and asked her to release him from his promise not to go any more to the café.

"Are you longing to go down there again?" she said in a motherly voice. "Think of your little son!"

They went out silent in the dark but starlit evening. He had for the first time offered her his arm and the cape of his coat flapped loose in the wind and struck her face. "I have already dreamt this once," she said. But he gave no answer.

When they came to her door, she took him by both hands, looked him in the eyes and said: "Don't go to your friends." Then she let her veil drop, and before he divined her intention, printed a kiss through the veil on his mouth. As he stretched out his arms to embrace her, she was already behind the door, and closed it. He stood there completely crestfallen without being able to understand how it had happened. Then came the conclusion: "She loves me and has not been playing with me." But what audacity! It is true she let her veil fall, for she was modest, and fled, alarmed at what she had done. It was original, but not bold-faced; other countries, other manners!

But for a man it was somewhat humiliating to receive the first sign of love and not to bestow it. Yet he would never have dared to run the risk of a possible box on the ears and a scornful laugh. It was well that it had happened; now he had certainty, and that was enough.

She loved him! Since he was loved, he could say to himself: "I am not so bad after all if someone can look up to me and believe good of me." This awoke his self-respect, hope, and confidence. He felt himself young again, and was ready to begin a new spring. It was true that he had only shown her his good side, but his habit of suppressing his worse nature for the occasion had brought his better nature into prominence. This was the secret of the ennobling influence of real love. He played the part of the magnanimous till it became a second nature. The fact that he discovered her beauty, and was delighted with her as a woman later on was a further guarantee that the stages of their love affair had developed themselves in orderly progression, and that he had not been merely captivated by a beautiful exterior. He had indeed guessed her defects and overlooked them, for that is the duty of love, and the chief proof of its genuineness, for without forbearance with faults there is no love. He went home and wrote the inevitable letter. It ended with the words: "Now the man lays his head in your lap as a sign that the good in you overcomes the evil in him, but do not misuse your power, for then you must expect the usual fate of tyrants."

The next morning he sent off the letter by a messenger. Ilmarinen his Finnish friend stood by the head of his bed and looked mysterious. "Well!" he said. "Are you going to try once more?"

"Yes, so it appears."

"And you dare to?"

"If it comes to the worst, I only dare to be unhappy, and one is unhappy anyhow."

"Yes, yes."

"It is a change at any rate, and this lonely life is no life."

Instead of an answer to his letter he received a telegram with a request to meet her that evening at the office of an editor who might be useful to them.

In answer to this he sent a message by telegram: "I don't come till I have received an answer to my letter."

Again came a telegram, in which she asked to be allowed to postpone her answer till the next day.

He thought the whole affair nonsensical but went to keep the appointment. She seemed as though nothing had happened; they ate their supper and discussed business. The editor was a married man, and pleasant, nor did he seem to wish his visitors to worship him.

This evening, however, the Norwegian thought her ugly. She was carelessly dressed, had ink on her fingers, and she talked so exclusively of business that she lost all her ideal aspect. He had experienced much in his life, and seen many strange people, but anyone so eccentric as this woman he had never seen. He went home with a feeling of relief, firmly resolved not to follow her to Berlin, nor to link his destiny any closer with hers. The next morning he received her letter; this strengthened him still further in his resolve to withdraw. She wrote that she was one of those women who cannot love. ("What sort of a woman is that? A mere phrase!" he thought.) He believed that he loved her but he was only in love with her love. ("Alexandre Dumas I think!") She still desired, however, to remain his friend and asked him to meet her that day.

He answered this with a farewell letter of thanks.

Then there rained on him telegrams and express messengers.

Towards evening a hotel waiter entered his room and announced that a lady in a carriage was waiting below to see him. At first he thought of declining to go down, but she might come to his room, and then the bond would be made fast. Accordingly he went down, entered the carriage, and without reflection or saying anything they gave each other a kiss, which seemed perfectly natural. There ensued a stormy conversation which was extremely like a quarrel. She asked that he should accompany her that very night on her journey, but he gave a decided refusal. If they were seen together, to-morrow the "elopement" would be in all the newspapers. That he could not bring his conscience to agree to, both on account of her parents and his own children. He also told her that he was dependent on other people's help, and that as soon as he was known as an adventurer all these resources would dry up.

"Then you don't love me!"

"What nonsense you talk, child."

He had to laugh at her. They got out of the cab and continued their contest in a little green lane which led down to the shore.

Now and then he put his arm round her neck and silenced her mouth with a kiss.

"I have seen that you are cracked, but I myself am half-mad, you see, and you won't get the better of me."

"I will jump into the sea!" she shrieked.

"Very well! I will follow, and can swim."

At last he got her to laugh. Then they entered a café in order to arrive at a final decision. Now he had the upper hand and treated her like a naughty girl, and curiously enough, as soon as he had assigned this rôle to her, she took it up and maintained it.

Did these two love each other now? Yes, certainly, for he knew how tied he was, and she had already, as appeared later on, confessed her love in a letter to her mother, adding that he was to know nothing of it, for then she would immediately be brought under the yoke of subjection.

The final decision they arrived at was that she should travel alone, and they made no promises to each other. They were to correspond and see whether they would be able to meet in the summer; when his position was more secure they would think of betrothal and marriage.

They parted, and did not see each other again for a long time.

He went immediately afterwards to look up his old friends in the café. There in his own circle he wished to find himself again, for during this month's exclusive living with a woman, he had become loosed from his own environment, lost his foothold, and built up a common life on the shaky foundation of the temperament of a young girl, whom his passion had transformed into a mature woman. Her last outbreak of anger had revealed a fury who believed that she could compel him to blind obedience. During this her face had exhibited all possible changes from the broad grin of Punch to the hissing of the cat which shows its white claws. He breathed more lightly, experienced a sensation of relief, and entered the café feeling as though he had left something oppressive behind him, something happily over and done with!

The Swede sat there, and probably the gossip regarding the Norwegian's engagement had caused him to bring his lady friend with him. She was a tall fragile-looking Swede who seemed to be emaciated by illness; she had a mournful, despairing sort of voice, a drawling accent and drooping eyes. As an artist, although obscure she was "emancipated" as the phrase is, but not free from the feminine vanity of being able to appear with a number of male hangers-on, whom she boasted of having made conquests of. Her thoughts had long turned upon the Norwegian. When they met, she found him novel and full of surprises. At the same time he brought with him the fire of his newly kindled flame. Within half an hour she had neither eyes nor ears for her old friend. When at last she snapped at him, he stood up and asked her to come with him. "You can go," she answered. And he went.

In less than an hour she had broken with her friend of many years and formed a tie with the Norwegian who an hour and a half before had kissed his fiancée at parting. He asked himself how that was possible, but took no time to reflect on it. She possessed the advantage of being able to understand him completely; he was able to speak out his thoughts after a long imprisonment; he needed only to give a hint in order to be understood. She drank in the eloquence of his words, seemed to follow the sudden leaps of his thought, and probably received answers to many questions which had long occupied her mind. But she was ugly and ill-dressed, and he sometimes felt ashamed at the thought that he might be suspected of being her admirer. Then he felt an unspeakable sympathy with her which she interpreted to mean that she had made a conquest of him.

They went out into the town and wandered from café to café, continually talking. Sometimes his conscience pricked him, sometimes he felt a repulsion to her, because she had been faithless to her friend. Faithlessness indeed was the link which united them, and they felt as if Destiny had driven them to commit the same wrong on the same evening. She had at once inquired about his engagement and he had at first given an evasive answer; but as she had continued to ask with comrade-like sympathy he had told her the whole story. But in doing so he spoke of his love, he became enthusiastic; she warmed herself at the glow and seemed to be a reflection of "the other." So the two images coincided, and the absent maiden, who should have been a barrier between them, was the one who brought them near each other.

The next day they met again, and she never seemed tired of discussing his engagement. She was in a critical mood and began to express doubts whether he would be happy. But she went carefully to work, showed indulgence, and only attempted purely objective psychological analysis. She also understood how to withdraw a severe expression at the right time in order not to frighten him away.

Now as ill-luck would have it, he received at noon a letter from his fiancée which was the answer to the stormy one he had written when they parted. In her letter she only wrote of business matters, gave good advice in a superior tone, in a word was pedantic and narrow-minded. Not a trace of the pretty young girl was to be found in the letter. This put him out of humour and aroused his disgust to such a degree that when he met his new friend, with a ruthless joy in destruction he proceeded to analyse his fiancée under the microscope. The Swede was not backward with her feminine knowledge of feminine secrets to put the worst interpretation on all the details which he narrated. He had cast his lamb to the she-wolf, who tore the prey asunder while he looked on.

At the beginning of April, that is three weeks later, the Norwegian sat in the café one afternoon with Lais, as she was called, after she had become the friend of the company in general, not of anyone in particular. He sat there with a resigned air, "prepared for everything" as usual. It had been difficult to keep his engagement alive by means of the post, and it had become still more uncertain after the news had reached her father's ears and brought him to despair. He was a Minister of State, lived at Odense, went to Court when he was in the capital, and wore twelve orders. He would rather shoot himself than be the father-in-law of a notorious nihilist. In order to put an end to the affair the old man had dictated his conditions, which were of course impossible.

The Norwegian must pay all his debts and give a guarantee that he would have a regular and sufficient income. Since a writer of plays has nothing guaranteed, but is dependent on popular favour, the wooer considered his proposal withdrawn, and regarded himself as unfettered, and indeed he was so. Moreover, thus humiliating correspondence about pecuniary matters had cooled his devotion, for love letters which were full of figures and motherly advice, practical items of information about publishers and so on, were not inspiring to read for a literary free-lance. And as the correspondence slackened, and finally ceased, he considered himself entirely free.

With her usual vanity, Lais had ascribed to herself the honour of having dissolved his engagement, although there was no reason for her doing so. Moreover, in the last few days a circumstance had happened which was fortunate for his future. Another friend of Lais had arrived from the north, and as he was one of her admirers she had such assiduous court paid to her that she did not notice how the Norwegian was slackening in his attentions.

In order to celebrate the arrival of the newcomer, the last few days had been a continual feast, and now they were in that strange condition, when the soul is, so to speak, loosed from its bearings and utters its thoughts without distinction and without regard.

Lais was possessed by the not unusual idea that she was irresistible, and liked to produce the impression that all her male friends, even those who had dropped her, were dismissed admirers. Now she wished to show her newly arrived friend how well she was provided with them and began to skirmish with the Norwegian. Since he had long cherished towards her the hate which is born of imprudently bestowed confidences, he seized the opportunity to bring about the breach without scandal, in a word to dispose of her without disgrace to either of them. Under some pretext, or perhaps with a foreboding that something was about to happen, he took his leave and left the other two together. But Lais pressed him to remain, probably to gain an opportunity of leaving him alone, when she went out with her friend. Here, however, she had made a miscalculation. Making a gesture of invitation to the new-comer, the Norwegian went out after saying the last word: "Now I leave you alone!"

When he came out on the street, he had a certain uneasy suspicion that he had left something unfinished behind him, and had something unexpected before him. He thought he heard the hissing voice of the woman he had left. She never opened her lips, which were sharply defined, like those of a snake, when she spoke, but brought the words straight out of her throat, which was always hoarse through her sitting up at night drinking and smoking. Such a voice in women he called a "porter voice" because it always reminded him of that black drink and its concomitants.

Such is friendship with women—either it ends in love or in hatred just like love!

When he came to his hotel, the waiter handed him a local telegram. "That is what brought me home," he said to himself. His experiences had made him believe in telepathy to such a degree that he was in the habit of saying when in company and there was talk of sending for some absent person: "Shall we telepath to him?"

Before he opened the telegram he believed he knew the contents, and when he had read, he felt as though he had done so before, and was not surprised. The telegram ran thus: "I am here; look me up at Doctor ----'s. Important news."

He stood still for two minutes in order to form a resolution. When the waiter came he asked him to telephone to the friendly doctor, who had a private hospital of his own and enjoyed a very good reputation. The doctor came at once and explained the situation: "Are you thinking of drawing back?" he asked.

"No, but I must collect myself, and sleep for twelve hours, for my nerves are out of control. I will send a telegram to say that I am not well. She will not believe that, but will come herself; I beg you therefore to wait for half an hour."

The telegram went off, and in half an hour steps were heard along the corridor. She entered, dressed in black and at first full of suspicion. But to be able to consult with the doctor gave her an advantage which pleased her. She said she would come next morning together, with the doctor, and then she went, after secretly imprinting a kiss on the patient's hand.

"You must not play with your feelings," said the doctor who remained behind. "This woman loves you and you love her. That is as plain as a pikestaff."

The Norwegian lay alone all the evening and sought to find some guiding thread through all this chaos, but in vain. What a tangled thicket was the human soul! How could one bring it into order? It passed from hate to contempt over esteem and reverence and then back again with one bound sideways and two forwards. Good and evil, sublime and mean, uniting treachery with deathless love, kisses and blows, insulting reproaches and boundless admiration. Since he knew the human soul he had adopted it as one of his fundamental principles never to balance accounts, never to go backwards, but always forwards. When in the beginning of their acquaintance she had wished to refer to something which he had said on a previous occasion he interrupted her: "Never look back! Only go forwards! One talks a lot of nonsense on the spur of the moment. I have no views but only speak impromptu, and life would be very monotonous if one thought and said the same things every day. It should be something new! Life is only a poem, and it is much jollier to float over the marsh than to stick one's feet in it and to feel for firm ground which is not there."

This must have suited her own ideas of life, for she was immediately ready to adopt this rôle. Therefore they found each other always novel, and always full of surprises. They could not take each other too seriously, and often when one of them attacked his or her own discarded views with the other's opinions of the day before, they were obliged to laugh at their own foolishness. Thus they were never clear about each other, and in really serious moments they would exclaim simultaneously: "Who are you? What are you really?" and neither of them could answer.

As he was on the point of falling asleep, he thought, "I shall make no resolve, for I have never seen a resolve lead to anything. The course of events may guide my destiny as it has done hitherto."

The next morning she came without waiting for the doctor. She had put on a wise air, as if she understood the illness thoroughly but did not wish to descend to trifles. She took a rod out of a basket she had brought with her.

"What is that?"

"That is 'the Easter rod'; to-day is Good Friday." She set up the rod at his feet, and adorned the edge of the bed with willow-branches in bloom. Like a little housewife she bustled about the room, surveying and putting it in order. Finally she sat down in an easy chair.

"Well! What is the great news?" he asked.

"We must enter on an engagement, for the papers have announced it."

"Have they, indeed? What about the old man?"

"Father has resigned himself, because the matter cannot be altered; but he is not happy. Now won't you congratulate me?"

"You should congratulate me first, for I am the elder."

"And the less intelligent."

"I have the honour to congratulate you. And what a man you have got!"

So they chatted, and soon came to the subject of their prospects. He dictated and she wrote. Such and such plays of his accepted for the stage.... That would be a thousand pounds.

"Discount thirty per cent for disappointments," she said.

"Thirty! I also reckon ninety or a hundred per cent."

"Be sober! It is serious." And then they laughed.

Divine frivolity! To look down on the ugly earnestness of life as if all one had to do was to blow at it. The poet's light-hearted way of treating economy like poetry.

"How could one bear the miseries of life, if one did not treat them as unrealities? If I took it seriously, I should have to weep the whole day, and I don't want to do that."

Dinner-time came; she laid the sofa-table, fed him, and was especially sparing with the wine.

"You have drunk enough now, and you must promise never to go to the café again, especially with Thais."

"Lais," he corrected her, but coloured. "You know that then?"

"A woman of twenty-three knows everything."

Glad to avoid a troublesome confession, he promised never to visit the café again and kept his word, for that was the only penance he could offer for his sorry behaviour. Thus they were engaged. His only social intercourse consisted in her company, while she continued to go to families which she knew, to visit theatres, and so on, for this belonged to her work as a newspaper correspondent. In case of an eventual struggle for power, she had all the advantages on her side, as she moved in an environment from which she derived moral support and fresh impulses, while he was thrown back on himself and his previous observations. They lived really like playfellows, for he never read what she wrote in the newspapers, while she had read all his writings but never referred to them. There was no consciousness shown on either side that he was a mature and well-known author and she a young critic of books and plays. They met simply as man and woman, and as her future husband he had placed himself on the same level with her, not above her.

Sometimes while they were together, he felt a prisoner, isolated and in her power. If he were to break with her now he would stand alone in the world, for he had got quite out of touch with his old friends and come to dislike the life of the café. Moreover, he felt so grown together with this woman, that he thought he would pine away if parted from her. In spite of her love she could not hide the fact that she thought she had him absolutely in her power, and sometimes she let him feel it. But then he raged like a lion in a cage, went out and sought his old friends, though he noticed he did not thrive among them and his conscience pricked him for his faithlessness. She sulked for half a day, then crept up to him, fell on her knees and was pardoned.

"At bottom," he said once, "we hate each other because we love each other. We fear to lose our individualities through the assimilating force of love, and therefore we must sometimes have a breach in order to feel that I am not you, and you are not I."

She agreed, but it was no remedy against the spirit of revolt, the struggle of the ego for self-justification. She loved him as a woman loves a man, for she thought him handsome, although he was ugly. He, for his part, demanded neither respect nor admiration but only a measure of trust, and a friendly demeanour. She was generally sparkling and cheerful, playful, without being teasing, yielding and gracious.

Once when he reflected over the various types of woman he had observed in her during the beginning of their acquaintance, he could scarcely understand how she had been able to play so many different parts. The literary independent lady with Madame de Staël's open mouth and loquacious tongue had entirely disappeared; the grand, pretentious woman of the world and the fin-de-siècle lady with morbid paradoxes were also both obliterated. She saw how unpretentious he was and she became like him.

April came and it was high spring-time. At the same time his prospects had brightened; some of his plays had been accepted; a novel sold for a considerable sum; and one of his dramas was acted in Paris. An untrue report was spread that the engaged pair had gone off together. Her parents in Odense were disturbed and urged on the marriage.

"Will you marry now?" she asked.

"Certainly I will," was his reply.

So the matter was settled! But then came difficulties. She was a Catholic and could not marry a divorced man as long as his first wife lived. In order to circumvent this difficulty he devised the plan of being married in England. And so it was settled. Her sister came as a witness to the ceremony. She was married to a famous artist, was herself an authoress, and therefore understood how to value talent, even when unaccompanied with earthly goods.

Thus they began their wedding journey.

III

It was a May morning on an island off the English coast. He had gone with her to the extreme end of a promontory where the cliff descends sheer into the sea. He wished to ask her something privately but did not dare to; therefore they stood there silently staring into the blue emptiness, seeking an object where there was none.

They had stayed there six days without being able to marry because through carelessness the notice of his divorce had not been published till some months after he had obtained a decree. Accordingly it bore so late a date that the time allowed for challenging it had not yet elapsed. He had exchanged telegrams with the authorities; confusion and misunderstanding caused further delay, and his fiancée's sister became impatient.

"Do you trust me?" he asked her.

"Yes, I believe in your honesty, but you are an unlucky creature."

"And your sister?"

"What is she to believe? She does not know you. She only knows that your assurances that the documents were valid, were incorrect."

"She is right, but it is not my fault. What does she mean to do?"

"She returns to-morrow, and I must go with her."

"So then we shall be parted before we are married, and I return to life in hotels, restaurants, and night cafés."

"No, not that," and after a pause she added: "Let us jump into the sea."

He put his arm round her: "Have you ever seen a destiny like mine? Wherever I go, I bring unhappiness and destruction with me. Think! Your parents!"

"Don't talk so! With patience we shall also get out of this."

"Yes, in order to fall into something else."

"Come! shall I blow at it?" And she blew the cloud away. There was an outbreak of divine frivolity again and they raced home through the fortifications and over the mines.

In the evening the decisive telegram came, and the wedding was fixed for the next day. It took place at first at the registry office. While the oaths were being taken the bride fell into hysterical laughter which nearly rendered the whole ceremony abortive, since the registrar did not know what to make of a scene which resembled one in a lunatic asylum.

It was not a brilliant wedding-party which assembled in the evening in the clergyman's house. Besides the bride's sister, four strangers —pilots—were present as witnesses when they plighted their troth "before God."

Fourteen days of May had passed. Both were sitting outside the comfortable little house and watching how the migratory birds rested in the garden before continuing their journey north-ward.

"So quiet?"

"How long?"

"Eight days more. But I had not thought that marriage was such a splendid arrangement."

"Although they call me a woman-hater," he said, "I have always loved woman, and although they call me a friend of immorality, I have always held by marriage."

"Can you imagine yourself leading a lonely life after this?"

"No, the thought chokes me."

"Do you know I am so happy that I am afraid?"

"Yes, so am I. I feel as if someone were lying and spying on us. She is called Nemesis, and follows not only guilty but also happy men."

"What are you most afraid of?"

"That we should part."

"But that depends on us, I suppose."

"Would that it did! But discord comes from without with the wind, with the dew, with too long-continued sunshine, with the rain. Try to explain which of us two was to blame for our last quarrel."

"Neither!"

"Neither of us two, then it was a third. Who is this third? In order to give it a name people call it 'misunderstanding'; but both of our understandings were completely clear, not disturbed at all."

"Don't frighten me."

"No, but be sure that the same event will happen again and that we shall blame each other as on the last occasion."

"Shall we not go and write now?" she broke in.

"I cannot write."

"Nor can I; my editor is angry because he has had no article from me for two months."

"And I have not had a single new idea for a whole year. What will be the end of it?"

The fact was that they had neutralised each other, so that there was no more reaction on either side. Their life together now consisted of a comfortable silence. The need to be near each other was so great that one could not leave the room without the other following. They tried to shut themselves in their rooms in order to work, but after a short time one would knock at the other's door.

"Do you know, all this is very fine, but I am becoming an idiot?" she complained.

"You also?"

"I can neither read, think, nor write any more, and can hardly speak."

"It is too much happiness, and we must seek some society, or we shall both become silly."

The fact was that they had both ceased to converse; they were apparently so harmonious in all questions and predilections and knew each other's opinions so well that there was no further need to exchange thoughts. The same tastes, the same habits, the same naughtinesses, the same superficial scepticism had brought them together, and now they were welded into one like two pieces of the same metal. Each had lost individuality and they were one. But the memory of independence and one's own personality was still present, and a war of liberation was impending. The sense of personal self-preservation awoke, and when each wished to resume their own share, there was a strife about the pieces.

"Why don't you write?" he asked.

"I have tried, but it is always you and about you."

"Whether it is I, or someone else, it all comes to the same thing."

"You mean I have no self?"

"You are too young to have a self."

He had better have left that unsaid, for by saying it, he woke her.

One morning there came a paper containing a notice to the effect that a volume of his poems had appeared with a London publisher.

"Shall we go to London?" she suggested.

"Yes, gladly, though I don't believe these notices which I have read so often. Anyhow, as a business journey, it can be made to pay its own expenses."

The resolve was carried out. They saw the little island[1] disappear with the same joy with which they had before seen it rise out of the mist.

In Dover they had to stay one day at an hotel. As he returned from a walk, he found his wife sealing up six packets, all of the same shape and size.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"It is the account of your American journey, which I am sending to some papers I know in Denmark."

"But you should not cut it up into sections; you know that it forms a complete whole. Have you read it?"

"No, I have only glanced through it; but at any rate it will bring in some money."

"No, it will not; for no one will print it piecemeal. Only in a single volume would it have any value."

She paid no attention. "Come now," she said commandingly; "we will go to the post."

She meant well, but was foolish; and although experience had taught him what a dangerous adviser she was, he let her have her way, and followed.

On the stairs, he noticed that she limped, for she had bought too tight boots with high heels, such as were then only worn by cocottes.

When they reached the street, she hurried on to the post, and he followed. As he noticed how the symmetry of her little figure was impaired by the many packages which she insisted on carrying, and how she limped on the boot heel which she had trodden down, he was seized with a sort of repulsion.

It was the first time that he viewed her from behind, and he thought involuntarily of the wood-nymph of legend, who in front was a charming fairy, but behind quite hollow.

The next moment he felt a remorseful horror at himself and his thoughts. In this cruel heat the little woman was carrying the heavy load, and had already written six long letters to editors all for his sake. And she limped! But her brutal way of treating his work and cutting a manuscript to pieces without having read it; treating a literary work as a butcher does a carcass!...

Again he felt repulsion, and again remorse, mixed with that indescribable pain which a man feels when he sees his beloved ugly, badly dressed, pitiful, or ridiculous. People in the street looked after her, especially when the wind blew out her thin serge mantle, which resembled a morning coat; it swelled out like a balloon and spoilt her fine figure. He hurried forward to take the packets from her; but she only waved him off, and hastened on, cheerful and undismayed.

When she came out of the post office, she wanted to go and buy larger boots. He followed. Since the purchase of them would occupy half an hour, she told him to wait outside. When at last she came out, she walked quite comfortably for a time, but then discovered that the new boots also were too tight.

"What do you think of a shoemaker like that?" she said.

"But he did not make the boots too tight for you! There were larger ones also."

That was a dangerous commencement of the conversation, and as they sat down at a table in a café, the silence was uncomfortable. They sat opposite each other and had to look one another in the eyes; they sought to avoid doing so, but could not, and when they were obliged to look at each other, they turned away.

"You would like now to be in Copenhagen with your friends," she said. It was a good guess. But even if he could have transported himself thither for a second, he would have wished himself back again at once.

Her nervousness increased, and her eyes began to sparkle, but since she was intelligent, she understood that neither of them was to blame.

"Go for a walk," she said; "we must be away from each other for a while, and then you will see it will be better."

He quite agreed with her, and they parted without any bitterness.

As he walked along by the side of the harbour, he felt his nerves become settled and quiet. He became once more conscious of himself as a separate and independent being; he no longer gave out emanations but concentrated himself; he was once more an individual in his own skin. How well he knew these symptoms, which signified nothing, but which in spite of all attempts to explain them, persisted as a constant phenomenon.

Meanwhile, since he felt a positive satisfaction in her absence, the thought stole into his mind that perpetual freedom from her would be attended by yet greater satisfaction, and as he approached the steam-boat pier the thought passed through his mind like a flash of lightning: "If I go off now, I shall be in Copenhagen in two days."

He sat down, ordered a glass of beer, lighted a cigar, and considered.

"If I go to London," he thought, "she will get the upper hand, because she can speak the language. I shall be led about by her like a deaf and dumb man and shall have to sit like an idiot among my literary friends whom she will get under her thumb. A pleasant prospect! Being patronised by her in the Danish newspapers was already sufficiently humiliating. I incurred an obligation to her...."

But in the midst of his meditations he broke off, for he knew that no character could stand such close and critical analysis. He knew also that no one could endure being gazed at from behind and judged in absence. Then a feeling of loneliness came over him and a consciousness of being faithless and ungrateful. He was drawn back to her, stood up and went quickly to the hotel. When he entered in an elevated mood and not without sentimental feelings he was greeted by a laugh, long-lasting and cheerful like the song of the grasshoppers. Dressed in silk she lay there, coiled up like an Angora cat, eating sweetmeats, and smelling of perfume.

Then they laughed both together, as though they had seen something comic in the street, which had nothing to do with them.

Now they were in Pimlico, between Westminster and Chelsea. They had paid one visit and that was all. Everyone was away, all the theatres were shut, and a perfectly tropical heat prevailed. One's soul felt as if it would gladly shake off its fleshly husk in order to seek for coolness up in the air. From morning to evening one felt only half alive.

The pressure of need had forced him unwillingly to set to work and write. But as he had already utilised most of his experiences, he was obliged to make use of some material which should, properly speaking, not have been employed. However, he did violence to himself, overcame his scruples, and began.

"Now I am writing," he told her triumphantly, "we are saved!"

His wife came and saw how he had filled the first sheet with letters. After an hour she came again. He was lying on the sofa lamenting: "I can do nothing! Let us then perish!"

She left the room without saying a word, and when she had shut the door, he bolted it. Then he took out of his portmanteau a green linen bag containing a quantity of sheets of paper covered with dates. These had been often spoken of by his friends and nicknamed the "Last Judgment." It was an historical work, in which, from a new and bold point of view, he treated the history of the world as a branch of natural science. He had planned it carefully, but perhaps it was destined never to be printed and would certainly never bring in any money.

After working for some time, he felt the usual restlessness which he experienced in the absence of his second self, and went down to seek her.

She sat reading a book which she made a lame attempt to hide, as he entered. By her strange manner he saw that some fateful element had entered into their common life.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Your last book," she answered in a peculiar tone.

"It has appeared then! Don't read it; you will poison yourself."

It was a ruthless description of his first marriage, written in self-defence and as a last testament, for he had intended, after completing it, to take his life. For years the manuscript had remained sealed up in the care of a relative, and he had never intended to print it. But in the last spring and under the pressure of necessity, after he had been assailed most unjustly by gossips and in the newspapers, he had sold the book to a publisher.

And now it had appeared and fallen into the hands of the very last person who should have seen it. His first impulse was to snatch the book from her, but he was restrained by the thought: "It has happened; well, let it happen!" And with perfect calm, as though he had assisted at his own inevitable execution, he left the room. At lunch, he noticed the strange transformation which had taken place in his wife. Her face wore a new expression; her looks searched his whole person, as though she were comparing him with the man described in the book. He took for granted that his sufferings there described would not arouse her pity, for a woman always takes sides with her own sex. But what he could not understand was that she seemed to recognise herself in certain of her predecessor's characteristics. Perhaps her mind was occupied by some still unsolved problems in the question which married people instinctively avoid—the woman question. Certain it was, however, that she had learnt what her husband's views were on the subject of her sex, and they were so cynically expressed that they must give her mortal offence.

She did not say a word, but he saw in her face that now all chance of peace was gone and that this woman would never rest till she had destroyed his marriage and compelled him to shorten his life. Against this he could only oppose his motto: "Be ready for everything," and resolve to bear everything as long as possible, and finally when nothing else remained, to go his own way. Then she would devour herself in solitude for want of food for her hate.

The next day she had hatched her egg, which proved to contain a basilisk.

With an air which would fain have seemed innocent, but did not, she told him, that since he could not work, they must think of retrenching.

"Very well," he answered.

First of all they had to content themselves with one room. This meant that all possibility of being his own master, of withdrawing himself, and of collecting himself was precluded. For the future he would be confined with his tormentress in the same cage, have no more power over his own thoughts and inclinations, and above all, not be' able to work at the "Last Judgment."

"You know you cannot work!" she remarked.

When midday came, a plate with some cold bacon and bread was set before him.

"You don't like soup," she said; "and hot food isn't nice in this heat."

Then she sat down to watch him.

"Won't you eat?" he asked.

"No, I am not hungry," she answered, and continued to watch him.

Then he stood up, took his hat, and prepared to go out.

"Are you going out?" she asked; "then I will go too, and we will keep each other company."

He went forward with long strides and she followed him. In order to vex her he chose the sunny side of the street by a long white wall, where the heat was intense, and the reflected light blinded the eyes. Then he dragged her out to Chelsea, where there was no house that could give shade.

She followed like an evil spirit.

When they came to the river, he thought for a moment of pushing her into the water, but did not. He went along the bank where lime-ships unloaded, steam-cranes puffed out coal-smoke, and chains hindered their walking. He hoped that she would fall and hurt herself, or be pushed down by a workman, and wished that a coal-heaver would embrace and kiss her—so boundless was his hate and hers.

It was in vain that he mounted over barrels and wheel-barrows and threaded his way through heaps of lime. He thought of jumping into the river and swimming to the other side, but was withheld by the thought that she perhaps could swim also.

At last he made a wide circuit like an ox persecuted by a gadfly, and went down to Westminster. There the back streets swarmed with the strangest figures, like shapes seen in a nightmare. He entered the abbey, as if to shake off a pest, but she followed, silent and unweariable.

Finally he had to return home, and when he got there, he sat down on one chair, and she seated herself opposite him.

Then he understood how a man can become a murderer, and determined to fly, as soon as he had written for money.

The night came, and he hoped now to be able to collect his thoughts, and be master of himself.

She pretended to be asleep, but he could tell by her breathing that she did not really sleep.

"Are you awake?" she asked.

He was still unwise enough to answer "Yes." Now they lay there watching which should first go to sleep. At last he did so.

In the middle of the night he awoke, listened, and heard by her breathing that she was asleep.

Then his soul stretched itself, wrapped itself up in the darkness, and enjoyed being able to think without being watched by those cold, threatening eyes.

She had not, however, really gone to sleep, but in the darkness he heard her voice as before: "Are you asleep?"

He felt the vampire which had fastened on to his soul and kept watch even over his thoughts. Why did she spy on him except that she feared the silent workings of his mind? She felt perhaps how he lay there, and worked himself gradually out of the meshes of her net. He only needed a few hours' quiet, but that he was not to have. So she denied herself sleep in order to torment him. She would not allow herself the pleasure of going to the city, or of visiting the libraries and museums, because she did not wish to leave him alone. The next day he asked her whether she wished to continue to translate his worlds, or whether he should have recourse again to his old translators.'

"Shall I translate you?" she said contemptuously. "There are better writers to be done."

"Why will you not rather translate me than your rubbishy authors?"

"Take care!" she hissed. "You over-value yourself and a terrible awakening awaits you from the dream of your imagined greatness." She said that in a tone as if she were supported by the public opinion of all Europe. That made a certain impression on him, for an author, even when recognised, often seems nothing to himself but is entirely dependent on the opinion others cherish regarding his talents. Now he felt the bond between them snap. She hated and despised his work, which was his only means of support, and when she sought to rob him of courage and confidence, she was the enemy. And in dealing with an enemy there are only two methods—either to kill him, or not to fight him but to fly. He determined on the latter.

He had still to wait a few days till the money came, and these days were enough to develop his aversion. He had opportunities of witnessing more cold, calculating malice, mischievous joy at successful thrusts, all the feminine small-mindedness, meanness, and duplicity, but on a larger scale. Since she knew that he could not get away for want of money, she gave him to understand that he was her prisoner; but he was not, however.

The room looked like a pigsty, and the meals were so prepared as to be purposely repulsive. Dirt and disorder prevailed to such a degree that he felt himself in hell. With longing he thought of his lonely attic which had always been tidy, however careless he had been about expenses.

Two months had passed since their marriage. All smiles and even conversation had ceased; love was changed into unreasoning hate, and he began to find her ugly.

On the last day before his departure, he felt obliged to speak out in order not to explode. "You were beautiful as long as I loved you; perhaps my love made you so, not only in my opinion. Now I find you the ugliest and meanest character which I have met in my life."

She answered: "I know that I have never been so malicious towards anyone as towards you, without being able to give any reasons for it."

"I can, though," he said. "You hate me because I am a man, and your husband."

He had packed his portmanteau and she was prepared for his departure. When now the time of separation approached and she believed it would be for ever, her hatred vanished, and behold! love was there again!

Her tenderness and care for him knew no bounds. They spoke of the future as though they would soon meet again. She gave him good advice in a motherly way, but resignedly, as if in face of an unalterable destiny which demanded their temporary separation. As they drove to the station in an open carriage, she kissed him repeatedly in broad daylight in the main streets. The passers-by laughed, but when the police began to look attentively at the caressing pair, he felt the need of caution.

"Take care," he said, "in this country we might be imprisoned for making love openly."

"What do I care for that?" she answered. "I love you so much."

He thought her again sublime in her all-defying tenderness, and they planned to meet again in a week. His intention was to go to his colleague Ilmarinen in the Island of Rügen. The latter would help him to order his affairs; then he would rent a house and they would meet again in a fortnight at latest.

"You see now, one cannot trust in the permanence of this hatred."

"No, one must trust love."

"It looks as if that had conquered."

Their parting at the station was heart-rending, and, as he sat alone in the railway carriage, he felt the pain of longing for her. He did not find the sense of freedom and happiness of which he had dreamt. All the recollections of her malice seemed to have been obliterated.

IV

He went from London to Hamburg in the hope of finding acquaintances on his arrival who would help him on to Rügen. But he found the place as though under a spell of enchantment; everyone had gone to the country or somewhere else. He had to take a room in an hotel and telegraph first to Ilmarinen in Rügen, but the latter answered that he had no money. Then he telegraphed to Copenhagen and Christiania and received similar answers.

He felt now as though he had been enticed into a trap and overpowered. Since there had been an outbreak of cholera the previous year in Hamburg, they expected another when the heat returned, and that was the case just now. Therefore, if he did not get away soon, he had to expect, not death, to which he felt indifferent, but the quarantine.

The days passed slowly with terrible monotony, for he had no one to talk to, and with the threatened cholera outbreak hanging over his head. Helpless and in a perpetual rage against some invisible foe who seemed to have a grudge against him, he felt paralysed. He dared not move a finger in order to alter his destiny, for he feared failure and renewed disappointment of his hopes.

In order to pass the time he studied historical tables and wrote dates from morning to evening. But the days were still terribly long, and after four days he conceived a fixed idea that he would never get away from this infernal town where nothing but buying and selling went on. This impression became so strong that he determined to end his life in his uncanny bedroom. He unpacked his things and put out the photographs of his children and other relatives on the writing-table.

Loneliness and torment made the time seem double its real length. He began to be under the illusion that he was a native of Hamburg; he forgot for a while his past and the fact that he was married or had lived anywhere else than here. He regarded himself as a prisoner with the weird feeling that he did not know what crime he had committed, who had condemned him, or who was his jailer. But the black spectre of cholera haunted invisibly the dirty water of the canals and watched for him. Three times a day he asked the waiter about the cholera and always received the same answer: "They are not sure yet."

Then at last came a letter from his wife. She cried aloud from longing, fear, and unrest, and wished to know where he was. He answered in the same tone and felt wild with rage at the destiny which separated them.

On the morning of the fifth day he discovered in a newspaper that his Danish friend lived only half an hour's journey by rail from Hamburg.

If he had known that before, he would not have been obliged to undergo all these sufferings. Now, since he could not pay the hotel bill, he resolved to depart at once and not to return. His friend would give him money which he would send to the hotel, and he would have his things sent after him. He took his seat in the railway carriage with the feelings of a liberated prisoner, cast a pitying look on Hamburg and forgave the injuries it had done him, but vowed never to honour it with another visit, unless compelled.

His half-hour's journey put him in a good humour, and his mouth watered at the prospect of being able to give expression to all his vexation and perhaps to make light of his martyrdom, and give it a comic aspect. His divine frivolity returned, and he thought that he must be after all a lucky fellow to find one of his friends so unexpectedly. He stopped before the comfortable little house; the landlord stood in the doorway; he greeted him and asked if Mr —— were at home.

"No; he went off this morning."

"Where?"

"To Denmark."

During the three hours which he had to wait for the train he had time to get over the blow. When he took his seat again in the train, he thought: "There is something wrong here; it is not the natural logic of events. It is certainly something else."

Then the spires of Hamburg reappeared and his hatred to the place awoke again, and rose to an incredible height when he saw a coffin at the station. "Now the cholera is here," he thought, "and I shall be in quarantine for fourteen days!"

But it was not the cholera, which was something to be thankful for. He did not feel so, however, for he felt sure it would break out on the same day that he received the money. And he calculated that he would never get away from Hamburg in this way. The money would delay so long till the hotel bill, which grew in geometrical progression, swallowed up the whole amount, and nothing would be left for his travelling expenses. In this way there would be a sort of perpetual movement which might last till the end of the world.

That his calculations were about correct was proved two days later when the money really came. He paid the bill, left the hotel in a cab, and drove to the station; then a hotel servant who had followed him expected a tip, and had, besides, a little additional bill, probably falsified, as usual. When he came to the booking-office and inquired the price of the ticket, he was two marks short. Accordingly he returned to the hotel.

It is not necessary to linger over details in order to give the reader a lively idea of what he suffered. In short, his silence cure still lasted some days; then he got away, and the cholera had not yet broken out.

His object in going to Rügen was partly to seek masculine society in order to get rid of the feminine atmosphere which had enveloped him, and partly to settle matters with Ilmarinen; but his chief purpose was probably to talk himself out. That was precisely why, he thought, destiny or whatever it was had relegated him to absolute silence in Hamburg, for "destiny" always sought out his secret wishes in order to frustrate them.

When at last he reached Rügen, hoping to have a good talk for half a night, he found Ilmarinen altered, chilly in demeanour and embarrassed. The latter had heard that his friend had married a lady from a rich family, as indeed was the fact, and therefore could not understand this sudden come down. When the new-comer asked whether they could have supper together, the Finn excused himself by saying that he had been invited to a birthday feast.

"I live, you know," he said, "with Lais's oldest friend, the Swede, who was in love with her, and who came last."

"Is he here?"

"Yes, he lives here, since Lais engaged herself to the Russian who left his wife and children."

"He hates me then also?"

"Yes, to speak the truth, your presence will certainly annoy him."

So he remained alone the first evening. Alone after a long double loneliness with his wife and with himself!

He felt as though he were under some curse, to be so treated by this insignificant, uncultivated Ilmarinen whom he had lifted up from nothingness, introduced to his own circle, fed and lodged, because he executed business matters for him with the theatres and publishers. This employment was partly an honour for the young unknown author, and partly an advantage, for it helped him to find openings for his own work. Now the pupil abandoned the teacher, because he thought there was nothing more to be gained from him, and because he considered he could now help himself.

The days which followed were now so dreadful, that again the thought occurred to him that this could not be natural, but that a black hand was guiding his destiny.

Since there was only one restaurant in this third-class watering-place, he had to sit at the same table with his countryman, who attributed to him the loss of Lais, and with Ilmarinen, who assumed a superior tone, because he regarded him as lost. Then the food resembled hog's flesh from which all the goodness had been cooked out. One rose hungry from table, and was hungry the whole day. Everything was adulterated, even the beer. As regards the meat, the restaurant keeper's family first cooked all the goodness out of it for themselves; the customers only got the sinews and bones, and were fed, in fact, just like dogs. Bitter looks, which his unfortunate fellow-countryman could not quite suppress, did not increase the imaginary pleasures of the table.

He spent a week in Rügen without hearing anything from his wife in London. At first he had found life on the island tolerable in contrast to that in the Hamburg hotel; but when he woke one day and reflected on his situation, it seemed to him simply hellish. He had hired an attic room and the sun beat fiercely on the iron plates of the roof, which was only a foot above his head. Sixteen years previously he had, as a young bachelor, left his garret at the top of five flights of stairs, in order to enter a house as a married man. Since that time it had been one of his nightmares to find himself crawling up the five flights of stairs to his old garret, where all the wretchedness and untidiness of a bachelor's room awaited him. Now he was again in an attic and a bachelor, although married. That was like a punishment after receiving warnings. But what crime he had committed he could not say.

Moreover, the whole surrounding soil consisted of light, loose sand, which had been so heated by the suns of midsummer that it did not become cool at night. It made one think at first of the hot sand-girdles which peasants use to cure inflammation of the lungs. Later on, after searching in his memory, he thought of the scene in Dante's Inferno where the blasphemers lie stretched out on hot sand. But as he did not think he believed in any good God, it seemed to him that blasphemies might be left unpunished.

After walking about for a week in the deep sand, it seemed to him really a hellish torture to have to take half a step backward for every one forward, and to be obliged to lift the foot six inches high in walking. Worst of all was the feeling of sinking through the earth like the girl in the fairy story who trod on bread. Never to find a firm foothold, nor to be able to run a race with one's thoughts, but to drag oneself about like an old man—that was hell. Besides this, there was a heat in the air which never abated. His attic was burning hot by day, and when he lay in bed at night with nothing on, he was scorched by the iron plates of the roof. The nearness of the sea would naturally have helped to relieve the heat, but that possibility had been carefully guarded against, like everything else. From his boyhood he had been accustomed to cast himself head foremost into the water because he did not like creeping into it. In connection with this also, he was persecuted by a frequently recurring nightmare, i.e. he used to dream that he was overheated and must plunge into the sea. The sea was there but was so shallow that he could not plunge into it, and when he did crawl into it, it was still so shallow that he could not duck his head. That was precisely the case here. "Have I come here for the fulfilment of all my bad dreams?" he asked himself.

And with reason. Ilmarinen grew more inquisitive every day; he asked when the Norwegian's wife was coming, and when a fortnight had passed, believed that she had quite abandoned him. This, naturally, pleased Lais's friend, and nothing was wanting to complete the Norwegian's hell. For there was something very humiliating in his position as a discarded husband. His correspondence with England had assumed such an ominous character that he did not know himself whether he was still married or separated. In one of his wife's letters, she dwelt on her inextinguishable love, the pain of separation, and the martyrdom of longing. They were, she said, Hero and Leander on opposite sides of the sea, and if she could swim, she would fly to her Leander, even at the risk of being washed up on his island a corpse. In her next letter she announced that she intended opening a theatre in London, and was trying to raise sufficient capital. At the same time she could not find enough capital to buy a steamer-ticket. A third letter contained the news that she was ill, and was full of complaints that the husband had left his sick wife in a foreign land. A fourth letter said that she was in a convent kept by English ladies, where she had been educated, and where she found again her youth and innocence; in it she also denounced the wickedness of the world and the hell of marriage.

It was impossible to give reasonable answers to these letters, for they poured on him like hail and crossed his own. If he wrote a gentle reply he received a scolding letter in answer to a previous sharp one of his, and vice versa. Their misunderstandings arrived at such a pitch that they bordered on lunacy, and when he ceased to write, she began to send telegrams.

This imbroglio lasted for a month, and during that time he looked back with longing to the hours he had spent in Hamburg; they seemed to him like memories of an indescribably happy time when compared with this.

At last he was cut down from the gallows. A letter came from his sister-in-law inviting him to his father-in-law's villa at Odense. His wife had also been invited; and it was arranged that they should meet again there.

V

Prepared for everything, even the worst, he entered on this new stage of running the gauntlet. The most curious of all his changes awaited him. After having been a husband and father he was to become a child again, be incorporated into a family, and find another father and mother many years after losing his own. The situation was rendered more confused by the fact that his father and mother-in-law had lived separate for seven years, and now wished to come together again on the occasion of their daughter's marriage.

He had thus become a bond of union between them, and since the daughter had also been at variance with her father, the family meeting promised to take the shape of a manifold reconciliation.

But his own past was not exactly associated with family reconciliations, and since he himself had not a clean record the prospective idyll by the Areskov Lake began to loom before him like a cave of snakes. How was he to explain this strange parting from his bride after only eight weeks of marriage? To allege pecuniary embarrassment would be the worst of all excuses, because a son-in-law with money difficulties would be regarded as an impostor or a legacy-hunter.

As he approached the meeting-place, he became nervous, but at the last hour he saved his courage, as usual, by reverting to the stand-point of the author: "If I get no honour thereby, I will at any rate get material for a chapter in my novel."

He also regarded what happened to him from another point of view—that of the innocent martyr. "I will see how far Destiny can go in its meanness, and how much I can bear." When the train stopped at the pretty little branch-line station, he looked out, naturally enough, for faces which sought his own. A young lady leading a delicate-looking child by the hand approached, asked his name, and introduced herself as his father-in-law's French governess. She had been sent, she said, to meet him.

A pretty white village whose houses had high, tent-like roofs and green shutters lay in a valley surrounded by small hills, and enclosing a beautiful lake, on the bank of which, outside the village, stood his father-in-law's house. On the road under the lime-trees a bare-headed, white-haired lady met him, embraced him and bade him welcome. It was his wife's mother. He was immediately conscious what a strange transmission of feelings such a simple transaction as marriage had seemed to him, might bring about. She was his mother and he was her son.

"I have known you long before you saw my daughter," said the old lady, with the quavering voice of a religious fanatic. "And it is as though I had expected you. There is much evil in your writings, but your immorality is childish, your views of women are correct, and your godlessness is not your fault for He did not wish to make your acquaintance, but now you will soon see Him come. You have married a child of the world, but you will not long remain with her when you see how she pulls you down into the trivialities of life. When you find yourself alone, you will re-discover the first vocation of your youth."

This she said in the solemn and unembarrassed manner of a sibyl, as though someone else spoke through her and therefore she did not fear to have said too much.

When the conversation returned to mundane things, he asked after his father-in-law, whose absence surprised him. She answered that he was not here, but would come to-morrow. His sister-in-law now appeared but she was chilly, gloomy and conventional in demeanour. He had thought her his friend and had hoped to find a support in her presence, but perceived now that that hope was vain, especially as she was going to leave before her father came. Nothing more was said about his own wife, and no one knew whether she was coming or not.

Had he been enticed into a trap? he asked himself, and was a court martial about to be held here? Had his wife written complaints against him from England? How was he to interpret the situation? A mother-in-law who almost advised him to be divorced, and spoke ill of her child—that was something very original!

Meanwhile he was conducted into the villa. It was a handsome stone building of two stories, with many large rooms filled with ancient furniture, tapestries, and ornaments. And this house, which could easily contain two large families, was occupied for only six weeks in the year by the owner during his holidays; the rest of the time it stood empty. This suggested wealth, and gave the son-in-law the impression that here, at any rate, one need not discuss poverty—its causes and its cure.

The day passed in conversation with his mother-in-law, who was unwearied in showing him attention and kindness. She was inclined on every occasion to lead the conversation to high subjects; as a religious mystic she was disposed to see the guiding hand of Providence everywhere. That led her to look at things in general from a tolerant point of view, since she regards people's actions as predestined.

In order to make himself agreeable in the most usual way he placed himself at her point of view and searched in his past for some premonitions of coming events.

"Yes," answered the old lady, "I said already that I had expected you; one of those wild Northmen was to come and take my daughter. But as you can guess, my husband was not delighted at the prospect; he has a very violent temper but is good at heart. You will have a hard tussle with him at first, but it will soon be over, if only you do not answer him. It is certainly fortunate that your wife has not come, for he has a bone to pick with her also."

"Also?"

"I don't mean anything bad; don't misunderstand me. It will be all right when his angry fit is over."

"He will be angry then, anyhow, but I don't understand why. I have acted in good faith, but every man may sometimes fairly plead unmerited misfortune."

"Oh, it will be all right!"

At last the evening ended and he went up to his room. It had windows on three sides; there were no outer blinds and the curtains could not be drawn together. He felt himself under observation, like a patient in quarantine.

When he lay in bed he had his father-in-law's bust to contemplate; the face did not look friendly but quite the reverse, and being lit from below, it assumed all manner of unpleasing expressions.

"And to-morrow I am to be lectured by this stranger who I have never seen; scolded like a schoolboy because I have had misfortunes. Well, I must put up with it, as with everything else."

The next morning he woke up with a distinct impression that he found himself in a pit of snakes, into which Satan had enticed him. Therefore it was impossible to flee, so he went out to botanise and survey the landscape. He screwed himself up into a frivolous, poetic mood and thought what a thrilling situation it was; a dramatic scene which no one had hitherto passed through. "It is my own," he said to himself, "even though it should scorch my skin."

Lunch-time came; it was not exactly cheerful at table and his father-in-law's empty place seemed to threaten him. After lunch he went up to his room to quiet his nerves and immediately afterwards the Councillor's arrival was announced.

The Norwegian went down smiling, while a chill ran through him at intervals. In the veranda stood a man who looked about forty, dressed like a young man, with laughing and youthful eyes. What the Norwegian's own demeanour was, he himself could not see, but it must have made a favourable impression, for his new relative greeted him respectfully, apologised for the lateness of his arrival, said kind things about his books, and asked him to sit down.

However, he always addressed him with "you" instead of the more intimate "thou." Then he talked of politics; he had just come from Fredensborg. He spoke at length of this and that person, apparently with the object of observing his son-in-law, who sat mute and attentive. Then he turned to his wife, asked if she had anything to entertain their guest with, and finally came back to him, asking if he wished for anything. Without hesitating he stood up, went near his father-in-law and said: "I have only one wish, that my wife's father should call me 'thou.'"[1]

There was a sudden gleam in the other's eyes, he opened his arms and now the doubter felt the same as he had when meeting his mother-in-law. The invisible family-tie had been knit; he was genuinely moved, and stood there transformed into a child.

"You are a good fellow," said his father-in-law, "I have looked into your eyes." Then he kissed him on both cheeks. "But," he continued, "you have got Maria, and you know what you have got, as I hear. Be good enough never to come and complain to me. If you cannot tame her, you must let yourself be drawn along by her. You have had your way; much good may it do you!"

Then they drank coffee and talked like relatives and old acquaintances. Then the Councillor went to change his clothes in order to go fishing. He returned in a summer suit of white cashmere which made him look still younger than before. The trousers had certainly belonged to his Court uniform, and traces of gold thread were still visible upon them, but that made an impression on the Bohemian. Moreover, his father-in-law offered him cigars which he had been presented with by princes.

The Councillor had dined at Court and was now going fishing with the anarchist. The latter felt his conscience slightly uneasy as he had not long previously admired the cleverness of some anarchists in forcing open money-safes. It was strange! But the Councillor spoke sympathetically of modern movements and of Scandinavian literature in general. He was also thoroughly acquainted with the terrible activity of his son-in-law, so that the latter had no need to feel embarrassed. He especially approved of his views on the woman question and expressed his opinion thus, "You have written all that I wished to write."

He was perhaps not quite serious, but he said it at any rate.

Then they reached the stream.

"Have you ever fished for perch?" asked his father-in-law.

"No," he replied.

"Then you had better help me."

The help consisted in placing the fish in a basket and clearing the hook without injuring the artificial fly.

Since everything requires practice, the son-in-law showed himself somewhat clumsy and got scolded. But he had become so accustomed to his new position that he found it quite natural, just as natural as when he used to go fishing formerly with his children.

At sunset the sport ceased, and the son-in-law had the honour of carrying the fishing-rods, basket, and fish home.

The evening was cheerful, and the Councillor sent a telegram to London with travelling expenses, telling the young wife to come at once.

"That is for your sake," he said to his son-in-law. In other words she had not been sent for before, and he had therefore been enticed, as one captures singing-birds.

"I have got well over it," he said to his mother-in-law as he bade her good night.

"The worst is over, but it is not finished yet."

"Do you think we shall both get a whipping?"

It was not the end yet by a long way. The next morning he received a letter from London in which she said farewell to him for ever (Lord Byron!) because in the choice between her and her parents, he had preferred the latter. Since there was no choice in question, this was a piece of nonsense which concealed something. Another letter, addressed to her mother, was to the same effect but expressed more violently and concluded by wishing her "good luck." Her mother explained it thus. "She is jealous, fears that you tell tales against her and find support here; she is so self-willed that she cannot bear even her parents over her. If you become good friends with her father and mother, she feels herself in a child's position with regard to you also!"

This was possible but not quite natural, for she ought to have rejoiced that he had made a conquest of her parents, and thus brought about a reconciliation between her and them.

Her father became angry and serious; he telegraphed an ultimatum and demanded an answer. Now the sky was clouded and there were no more smiles. The Norwegian feared a collision if he remained here, and telegraphed to his wife: "I am going to Copenhagen; if you do not come, I will seek for a divorce." But he had to wait for an answer, and therefore he remained. That night he could not sleep, for the situation was grotesque enough to drive one to despair. Suppose she agreed to a divorce, how could the family-tie which had just been formed be broken in a moment? What would he be then, who had just entered into the family and received their confidence? What would the old people think? Such a hasty breach could not take place without some reason.

The next morning a telegram came from his young wife who was in Holland. Since everything was fated to go crazily this telegram was so badly worded that it might mean "I am coming to you," or "I am going to Copenhagen to meet you there."

This telegram became a bone of contention, and for three whole days the old pair and their son-in-law disputed over its interpretation. But the young wife did not come. They listened to the whistles of the steamboats, went down to meet the trains, came back and discussed the telegram again. They had no more quiet, and could not carry on a conversation without turning their heads and listening.

The next day the father's patience was exhausted, for a collateral circumstance came in view, of great importance in his eyes—the unavoidable scandal. The whole village knew that the son-in-law was there, but that his wife had been lost and was sought for by telegram. Her father therefore shut himself up all day, and when he emerged began a ruthless discussion of the economic problem.

"Have you a sure income?" he asked.

"As sure as authors generally have," was the answer.

"Very well, then you must do like others, and write for the papers."

"No paper will print my articles."

"Then write them so that they can be printed."

That was more than a sceptic and quietist ought to have borne, but he bore it and kept silence, firmly resolved rather to take a guitar on his arm and go about as a wretched streetsinger rather than sell his soul.

The old man had himself been a novelist and poet in his youth, but had been obliged to give up the struggle in order to provide for his family. He, therefore, had the right to say: "Do as I have had to do." But on the other side he knew by experience how hard such a sacrifice is. He immediately felt sympathy with his son-in-law and spoke friendly, encouraging words. The next moment, however, his justified suspicions awoke, and the memory of the sacrifice he had once made made him bitter; he felt he must trample on an unfortunate who had fallen under his feet. When he saw how the other kept silent and took everything quietly, an evil spirit probably whispered to him that this man could only bear everything so patiently because he hoped some day to be heir in this house. Then he spoke of King Lear and his ungrateful daughters who left the old man alone, waited for his death, and robbed him of honour. So the day passed, and when the son-in-law withdrew, he was sent for to be whipped again. Since he could put himself in other's places, and understood how to suffer with them, he made no attempt to defend himself. He could easily imagine himself old and set aside, despised and neglected by his children. "You are right," he said, "but still I feel myself innocent."

On the evening of the third day after the dispatch of the London telegram his mother-in-law came to him. "You must go early to-morrow morning," she said, "for he cannot bear to see you any more!"

"Very well, I will go."

"And if Maria comes now, she will not be received."

"Have you ever seen a man in such a position as mine?"

"No; my husband grants that too; it makes him suffer to see such a worthy man as you in such a position; he suffers on your account, and he does not want to suffer. You know my thoughts about it; it is no one's fault and not the fault of circumstances; but you are fighting against another who pursues and pursues you till you are so weary that you will be compelled to seek rest in the only place where rest is to be found. In me you will always have a friend, even if you are divorced from my daughter, and I shall follow the course of your destiny with my good wishes and my prayers."

When alone in his room, he felt a certain relief to think that to-morrow there would be an end of this wretchedness which was among the worst things he had experienced. In order to think of something else, he took up a paper which proved to be the official Court news. His eye flew over the first page down to the feuilleton, where a literary essay attracted his attention. He read it, thinking that his father-in-law had written it. At the first glance the article showed great familiarity with literature, but it contained over-confident judgments and was written in too artificial a style. Moreover, it surprised him by displaying hostility to all modern literature (including Scandinavian), while German literature was pointed to with special emphasis as that which set the tone to, and stood highest in the civilised world. Germany always at the head!