The Bride of Dreams
F >>
Frederik van Eeden >> The Bride of Dreams
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20
But then I was restored to health and the lovely, lazy life was ended.
And Emmy, mindful of our last rather unsatisfactory conversation on
horseback and perhaps also to offer an antidote for Heine, brought me a
small New Testament as a parting gift, which I gratefully and
reverently pressed to my heart and began to peruse diligently.
VII
Now the crafty devil held me securely in his meshes and could display
himself without having the terrified little fish swim away. My body,
now strong again and refreshed, wanted Emmy for my wife in the
ordinary, human, time-honored way. It made this known with undeniable
distinctness, without concerning itself in the least about my exalted
scruples. Women can still cherish the illusion that kisses and embraces
have no deeper significance; a man is more distinctly warned; and I
really think it not at all kindly of the great and noted lovers that
they so often profess ignorance in that respect, thus misleading the
reader.
Satan could grin perfidiously now at the fix I was in. The shame of my
unworthiness could, perhaps, have been wiped out with the help of
Emmy's magnanimous forgiveness. Such an absolution is not unusual in
the world of romance, and quite the rule in the actual world. But the
body absolutely would not bear of postponement, and though
circumstances were ever so favorable to me, yet modesty and convention,
yes, even practical common sense, demanded a few years more of waiting.
A few years - how lightly these periods are set and written down in the
love stories, from the time of father Jacob's seven years - and how
terribly different is their significance for the man of different
temperament.
The Old Testament shepherd lad may perhaps have borne it in good stead
- but if we try to be frank, dear reader, what then may we suppose that
such periods hide for the man of modern civilization, of wrong, of
corruption, of unworthy transactions between the moral, ideal and
natural reality?
When but recently come to England, I had read the statement in one of
Thackeray's books that possibly there might be pure women, but
certainly no pure man, and with youthful arrogance I had sworn a solemn
oath that I would make him out a liar. This was the first of the fine
set of broken, patched and mended oaths with which the quarrelling
household of my soul was gradually fitted out. And one would think that
the ambition for the collecting of this precious and breakable
bric-ŕ-brac should not be so generally praised and encouraged. I, at
least, have had to pay dearly for this hobby, and with melancholy,
struggles, self-torment, self-reproach and continuous worry it has
embittered the best years and the most beautiful emotions of my life.
And if now, in the end, I, at least, saw the way clear, dear reader! -
but truly! if I should have to begin again, from the very beginning, I
should not know yet bow to act better. I would surely never make
promises again - but what I once pronounced impure and unworthy, I
still call it so. And that I was, nevertheless, drawn into it through
my own nature, like a rebellious cat, I still consider equally
disgraceful and unjust. But how I could have prevented it I do not know
yet, for I fought like a hero, and after all I was not one of the
weakest; - yes! I was stronger even than the greater majority.
But this I know, that with all this worry I would not besides give to
remorse a place in my house, and I advise you, dear reader,
relentlessly to throw this guest out of your door. I would certainly
continue to be as rebellious and unforgiving toward the vile and
unworthy, - but if there is consciousness of sin and sense of guilt to
bear, I know now who is justly ready and willing to bear with us and to
ease this burden for us poor toilers.
The constitution of society and the precepts of convention are moreover
so badly qualified to ease the struggle, because society and moral law
manifest so little comprehension of the true nature of our
difficulties. Where I felt no danger whatsoever, there were strong
walls of strict convention; and where I knew positively that I would
succumb, the world offered no defence.
With one of Emmy's friends or another innocent girl or woman, no matter
how lovely and attractive, one might without danger have sent me off on
a journey and have left us together for days and weeks without
witnesses, and not a shadow of eroticism or impure thought would have
arisen in me. With Emmy herself, her innocence and my own scruples and
respect were a better safeguard than all moral laws. But as soon as I
detected in a woman, totally strange and indifferent to me, ugly even
and repulsive, this peculiar weakness, usually paired with good nature,
which indicated in an almost imperceptible manner that the parting wall
of modesty would fall at my first assault, I already felt myself lost
from the beginning in spite of all conventional restrictions.
I sometimes vainly endeavored to imagine how ugly a woman would have to
be to make me repel her advances with stony coolness. Every woman, the
least attractive even, could make me stumble, simply by humbling
herself. As by an excess of chivalry, I could not refuse a woman's
request nor even await it. It was as though I must prevent her casting
off her modesty at all costs by my own debasement; that is to say, as
long as she desired only my body and not my heart. My heart remained
out of shot range behind the walls of my true love for Emmy.
When physical desires and spiritual sensibilities are once severed one
from the other, they never grow entirely together again and
possibilities of sad confusion remain throughout life. In spite of my
pure and passionate love for Emmy, my bodily desires could be excited
to madness by the first woman that came along seeming inclined to let
the veil of modesty drop before me. And while, with - the exception of
Emmy, the most beautiful, sweetest and noblest women did not exercise
the slightest alluring power over me and Emmy's guileless trust in me
and her absolute want of jealousy in that respect were entirely
justified, a coarse, low-born, sensual and good-natured woman could
seduce me to things that neither Emmy nor any of the persons who knew
me would have deemed possible. Thus you see, dear reader, how highly
necessary it is to regulate the strange connection between ape and
angel in valid and permanent fashion, from childhood up, for the two
have such different conceptions of good and beautiful that it will not
do to leave to each his freedom in one narrow, fragile house.
For all the rest, I was constitutionally strong and well balanced in
soul and body. Of disease I know little, and that breaking down of the
bond between the visible and invisible part of our nature that people
call nervous troubles nowadays was ever strange to me.
And this was the most perplexing and confounding circumstance in my
difficulties, that when the ape had finally had his way, he rewarded me
for it by a feeling of physical refreshment and comfort, by a
consciousness of renewed and invigorated life, a clearing of thought,
an increased activity and capacity for enjoyment.
All this agrees very badly - does it not? with the traditional
punishment that should follow upon the misdeed. Perhaps it even seems
to you in flagrant conflict with the moral world order. I cannot help
it, but it was as I have told you, and you can only save the honor of
tradition, as I did at the time, by declaring it all a most
contemptible artifice of Satan. But conscience is not hushed by this
explanation. On the contrary, who would maintain a real, live devil
must have a conscience for him to gnaw. Pure and elemental it need not
be; he is satisfied - with any cheap group-fabrication, and the
torments remain the same.
My life in these years was one long, secret struggle, the fierceness of
which only my father suspected, without being able to do anything to
help me, poor man - for he really suffered under it with me because his
life task was at stake.
In his helplessness he even seriously considered and covertly proposed
our following the example of certain aristocratic English families
where, as he declared he knew positively, a pretty servant girl was
engaged to keep the son of the house from worse excesses, until the
time for a respectable marriage had arrived and the girl was sent home
with a liberal remuneration.
But the mere allusion roused me to indignant passion, little as I was
entitled to such pride. How shall we account for it, that every
reminder of what man recognizes as degrading in his love life is never
more unbearable, never more painful than between parent and child?
My life and my being in these years was like the struggling of two
powers in deadly dispute, rising and falling between heaven and earth,
between clouds and sea - the eagle of ideal sublimity and the snake of
earthly brutishness.
"Feather and scale inextricably blended."
For me, in an outwardly calm and care-free life, an anxious and
terrible struggle with
"Many a check
And many a change, a dark and wild turmoil."
The distress, the shame, the self-contempt, the despair resulting
therefrom made my behavior toward Emmy so strange, so uneven and
capricious that she often felt hurt by it, and so was careful to draw
back a little more.
Before long I had a rival: a young English officer, equally handsome,
equally good to look at and strongly built as I, but somewhat calmer,
somewhat more measured and somewhat more assured of his own right and
virtue. For these qualities he was hateful to me, but with secret
bitterness I recognized his superior rights, because I took him for a
pure man.
In my country, in Spain, in France, also in Germany, men, even those
calling themselves well bred, are often caddish enough to make coarse
sexual jokes toward comparative strangers and to assume a freer tone
when no women are present. Such behavior could make me furious and I
always answered it with mocking non-comprehension. And at the same time
it tormented me, that anyone knowing my thoughts and habits would call
me a hypocrite for this reason. But my disgust for such coarsenesses
was strong and sincere, and I valued it in my English friends that they
seemed to feel the same as I in this respect.
My rival, Captain Truant, was polite and correct in everything and
toward me he was cordial and pleasant, but he could not quite hide that
he looked upon me as an Italian, that is to say, a man of lower race
and backward civilization. I realized that he would think it very
unsuitable and a great pity to have a sweet, well-bred blonde English
girl like Emmy throw herself away upon a dark foreign type. True, I had
money and a duke's title, but there are also Japanese, Turkish and
Persian noblemen, who are therefore not yet a match for a pretty
cultured English maiden. So without any mental scruples, with the calm
conviction of the Englishman that his actions are perfectly justified,
Harry Truant came between us two with a stanch, even, steady wooing.
And what immediately struck me with distressing clearness was the
greater ease with which Emmy and Harry understood each other. They were
at home in each other's world and immediately understood each other's
ways, each other's tastes, each other's humors. Perhaps in the
beginning my exoticism had been to my advantage through the incentive
of the strange and new. But my incomprehensible caprices, my strange,
sometimes passionate, sometimes utterly reserved behavior had wearied
and frightened Emmy for some time. And I saw that the more familiar and
wonted ways of her thoroughly English countryman did her good and were
more agreeable to her. I saw all this with bitter resignation; I
thought that I was receiving my rightful deserts.
Yet the dear girl would not lightly have cast me off for another. It
had never come to an actual proposal and she might consider herself
free. But she was scrupulous enough to feel herself bound even by an
unconfessed affection, by the intimacy of our conversations and by the
one kiss. I realized this and in grieved and hopeless self-sacrifice,
wished to put a stop to it.
"I know quite well what is going on, Emmy," I said one night as we sat
together at the river's edge. "I only want to tell you that you must
not consider yourself bound to me. You are free?"
She looked at me a while, irresolutely and with a sorrowful expression.
Then she said, gently shaking her head:
"What does ail you, Vico? What is it that is lurking in your mind that
you behave so strangely toward me?"
Her gently compassionate voice, the ardent confidential tone, the dear
expression of her face, were more than I could bear. I felt the tears
coming and clenched my fists. It was no use. I had to get up and went
on a little further, leaning my head and hand against the rough bark of
a tree, by force restraining my sobs, when I felt a gentle hand upon my
shoulder.
"Vico!" she said.
But with a nervous jerk I shook her hand off my shoulder and in a
choking voice said:
"Do not touch me. I am not worthy of you." The hand dropped and I
realized that she became somewhat cooler and more cautious. Of course
she began to suspect something very bad.
"Can't you tell me, Vico?" she asked, not unkindly but much more
severely.
"No, Emmy. Never! - Think that I love you as no one else can ever love
you. . . . But I am not worthy of you, and I want you to be happy. I
shall stand in your way no longer. Do not trouble yourself about what
will become of me."
"Poor boy!" said Emmy earnestly and tenderly. "Is it really something
so insurmountable?"
"Absolutely insurmountable, Emmy. Think of it no more, God bless you!"
"God bless you, Vico!" said Emmy, following me with a look half
sorrowful, half resigned.
More resigned than I liked to see.
Such farewells have taken place before and have also often been
followed by reconciliations, yes, by several farewells and
reconciliations. But here there was not the mutual equality of vehement
passion, and not the singleness of purpose that, overriding all
scruples, wins by perseverance. My rival made swift and prosperous use
of the advantage afforded him.
I avoided Emmy's house, but still occasionally visited the club which
Captain Truant also frequented. And a few weeks later I saw him enter
there one evening and receive the congratulations of his friends. I
realized what this meant and with a paralyzed, icy feeling I remained
seated, staring at the paper which I pretended to read.
But the lucky fellow stepped up to me, he was not noble enough to wish
to spare me.
Among those who noisily greeted and congratulated him there was also an
officer, nicknamed "the gallant capting" by the others, an
insignificant, blustering little fellow with a monocle, for whom I felt
a particular aversion, because he, although ever himself the dupe, when
he had drunk a good measure, would now and then with his brutal
volubility and English jokes successfully turn the laugh on me, the
stranger. Loudly laughing and talking to Harry he came and stood close
beside me.
"And how about Dina, now?" the braggart asked Truant.
"Hush! hush, man!" said Truant. "A little discretion, if you please!"
But the tipsy fop would not be shut up so quickly.
"Will you give me authority to fill the vacant place, Harry? As
lawfully authorized comforter?"
"All right! All right!" said Harry Truant, to get rid of him.
But I had distinctly heard and comprehended everything. Or rather I
only comprehended that by a word of authority I had suddenly obtained
permission to do exactly what my body desired. The tormented body,
desperate from the long struggle of serpent and eagle, now desired
vengeance and destruction. The room, the gas lights, the chairs,
everything in an agreeable, even pleasant fashion began to fade, to
float, to wheel about -- and with the silent murderous resolution that
in like circumstances had characterized my forefathers of the masculine
line, I clutched Harry Truant by the throat.
If these memoirs were to find an English or American publisher, it
would be politic to announce here that the Englishman with his
practised boxing fists with ease doubled up the Italian and knocked him
into a corner, unconscious. Anything short of that the public of
Rudyard Kipling would not stand for, of course. Yet I prefer to state
the truth: that Harry Truant and Vico Muralto dealt each other some
ugly blows that night, but without deadly consequences, and that they
were with difficulty separated by those present. The challenge for a
duel, as conflicting with the laws and morals of his country, was not
accepted by the English officer, which at the time greatly vexed me and
stamped him in my eyes as the very soul of cowardice and dishonor, but
which to-day I not only excuse, but highly respect.
That same year Harry and Emmy went to India as husband and wife. Vico
and his father entered upon their last journey together.
VIII
In my youth people sometimes called me a poet, and though they employed
the term vaguely and at random, yet it was not wholly unjustified. For
I am a destroyer of suggestion, a shatterer of the group, a wanderer
from the herd, an idol-hater, but also a searcher for joy, beauty and
bliss, a lover of reality; and all these are characteristics of a poet.
But making verses did not suit me. Let me call it unwillingness; then
you may speak of the impotence, and perhaps, even so, we are both
saying the same thing. I honor and admire the great singers, but I
myself have always felt a barrier when I wished to metamorphose my
personal and intimate emotions into separate entities and into public
property. I felt as though I must kill them first, before administering
this cure, as Medea did with her father-in-law Ćson, - and that I could
not do.
I was equally impotent to create imaginary characters, which in their
own way revealed my sorrows, my weaknesses, my follies and my virtues,
forming new personalities with independent life: as my dear friend
Goethe created Werther, Faust, Egmont and Tasso.
I realize that it must have been a great delight and consolation and
also a strong proof of humility and love, an admirable emulation of the
Divine Creator and enriching of the human world. But I myself could
never attempt it.
My great grief seemed to me too sacred and too intimate to put it into
little verses and send these out into the world as singing birds, to my
own relief and the delight and edification of all.
Moreover I found it humiliating to make my own nature into a mask and
in a well-sustained rôle let it aspire for human applause; as is the
custom of my young friend Nietzsche, who lances such vehement tirades
against actors and comedians, but does not seem to perceive how much he
himself, like all poets, is an histrionic artist.
Here also I decidedly lacked the truly humble love of mankind that must
have moved my surely not less proud friends, Shelley and Goethe. In the
bard and the actor I always seemed to see the courtier.
Ariosto had his Alfonso d'Este and Goethe his Carl August.
And the great bards of freedom of the past century, Shelley, Byron,
Hugo? Ali! Were they not courtiers of King Demos?
I am not an enemy of King Demos, and I know that his earthly realm is
at hand. May he replace and rule all kings until King Christ rules
supreme among men. I wish him prosperity and glory, as Diogenes, I
imagine, must have wished to Alexander. But to be his courtier, I
always lacked the necessary self-denial, and to rebel against him, like
friend Nietzsche, there again I had too much realization of his worth
and power. So that, impotent to be a lord and unwilling to be a
courtier, I was driven into this forgotten nook. And here, to keep body
and soul together, I must be something of an actor after all now, and
play the philistine part, though it be vi coactus and not for human
applause; while I, a lowly slave, nevertheless through my quiet mental
activity enjoy the highest freedom in my chains, proclaiming to King
Demos the weakness and instability of his power, because he shall not
himself ascend the throne without the help of tyrants and shall be
driven off by a yet more mighty and righteous Lord. And even for this
Lord I am still a critical and fault-finding subject, but I think these
are the ones he prefers.
In these first days of profound sorrow I strove with even greater
effort to know who this Christ was who had redeemed us or could redeem
us, and I wrote to my mother about it and read diligently in Emmy's
precious gift.
My mother wrote me long prolix letters in reply, which I read
attentively and reverently, unwilling to admit that they really had
nothing more to tell me. They were the same things - the miracle of
grace, the redemption through the blood of Jesus - repeated over and
over again in all sorts of new inversions and combinations, so that it
seemed a miracle already that with so few notes one could make so much
music. My father was well aware of these letters and furtively regarded
me half scornfully, half disturbed, as I sat deciphering them patiently
and with earnest devotion to the last syllable. That it was all over
with Emmy was a relief to him, but all the more anxiously he watched
this animated correspondence and the increase of the maternal
influence; especially as I should shortly attain my majority.
We had gone to Holland on our last trip to the little seaside resort on
the North Sea with its unpronounceable name, and thus I for the first
time tarried in that strange little nook of Europe, that was to become
the seat of my voluntary hermitage, amid that curious little nation,
which of all nations probably displays the most profound mingling of
lovable and detestable qualities. On this first visit with my father I
saw nothing of the people and little of the country. But I saw the
coast of the North Sea and there I learned to love the sea more than
when I sailed her. On that sandy coast we became intimate, the sea and
I, there she took me to her bosom and we communed heart to heart,
whispering the most intimate secrets into each other's ears. There the
sea became for me a being with a soul - as everything is, though we do
not perceive it - and there her aspects and her voice acquired a
meaning, as all that we call lifeless has a meaning.
And on this first visit I went with my father to see the works of
Rembrandt, with some doubt and unbelief and prejudice, as befits
Italian patriots. And then with my newly awakened vision of the life of
all things, I saw that this man did with all the living and the dead
about him what the coast of the North Sea had done for me with the sea:
- he showed the meaning and the mysterious life of everything, be it
living or be it dead so to speak. And he showed how living men aside
from their own personal life lead yet another, vaster world-life
without themselves knowing it. And he pictured this world-life as
something beautiful and grand, even though the people and the things
were in themselves ugly.
And this was such a revelation, such a boon for my early matured soul
that I absolutely would not believe that this man, who could do what
none of my greatest countrymen had been able to do, was a perfectly
commonplace Hollander. But I regarded him like some strange god, by
chance incarnate here, and I revered him above all the saints in the
calendar. Yes, I wished in a vague sort of way that he might prove to
be Christ, for then I, should know what to believe. For it may be very
fine to manifest, as Giotto and Fra Angelico, and Rafael and Titian,
how beautiful human nature is and can be imagined; but yet there is
more comfort and salvation in revealing how in the unlovely, mean and
ugly the divine life dwells, and is beautiful and can be seen as
beautiful even by us poor human beings. Yes, even though it were ever
so imperfect, as in many a canvas that seems to me like an anxious and
desperate struggle to bring out something at least of the everlasting
beauty, - it was there, it was visible, perchance a faint ray in a
dark, dreary cloud of ugliness, and the great task was again
accomplished, the great consolation offered.
And finally I visited with my father the little village where Spinoza
led his quiet philistine's life, and patiently bored the hole through
which the confined thoughts could find an outlet. And when I saw the
little house and the quiet, peaceful landscape and heard of the lonely,
sober, chaste life of this equanimous and devout Jew, I desired for
myself no better lot than to be able to follow his example as soon as
possible.
It has taken a little longer than I thought at the time; stronger and
more continued rubbing with the rough world was necessary to charge my
soul with such high potency that, as his, it would emit bright sparks
in isolation. But now it has come about after all, and I would not
contradict you if you said that it was Rembrandt and Spinoza who drew
me to the regions sanctified by their labors for the fulfilment of my
life's task, had not this meditative dwelling sphere been already dear
to me for other reasons.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20