The Story of My Wife (16 page)

"You see, you see," she now said to me. "I love you so much and you treat me horribly."

I cannot begin to describe what gladness, what calm filled my heart at this moment. She was a good girl after all, despite her odd ways. And I suddenly remembered other little incidents which at the time I hardly paid attention to. Like when she brought me some pills for my headache; or the time she berated me for not buying a wintercoat, and other such trifles. Who in my life had ever shown such concern, who ever cared about me so much? And such a young girl, who was not mature enough to be this considerate. I said to her now:

"I did treat you badly, I know; and it pains me, too. But what am I to do if my fate turned me into such a heartless man. With a life such as mine it was inevitable
...
I want to talk to you openly."

And I was ready to tell her everything, above all, that I hated my wife; and that only now that I was with her did I realize how much I hated her—I didn't even feel like going home.

I also meant to explain to her that my life was not yet over, and implore her to save me, save my wretched life—she was the only one who could . . .

"I wasn't always like this," I said to her, and already felt myself getting a little warm. "But do you know what it's like to be tormented? Tormented until you are ravaged, your mind, your heart, until you are turned into a thoroughly despicable man. . . ?

At this point I suddenly fell silent.

How was I going to tell her the rest? The most important part. About my wife and me, how we lived even now. For even if I had just thought of our fun and games . . . But no way did I want to think of that when I was with her. I was ashamed of my life, realized how loathsome it really was. Being with her was like stepping out of some dive into the fresh air and seeing peaceful, beautiful country all around.

How very different this girl is, I thought wistfully as I glanced at her. How sweet and pure; and how beautiful.

But why did she lower her head?

And why didn't she answer? Or did she find everything I said— my whole miserable story—so self-evident that she wasn't even surprised? Maybe she knew about it all. That's what her demeanor seemed to suggest.

And not just now. I had long suspected that she knew more than she let on. But if she did, how did she? This puzzled and intrigued me more than ever.

I thought the best thing would be simply to ask her. Actually, something happened at home just then that I mustn't leave out.

It was nothing much, really, though the consequences were momentous. I found a couple of withered violets on the top of the cupboard, amid a dusting of green moss. This in itself was nothing unusual, of course, except that it followed another discovery. A few weeks earlier I had found a handsome little box in the wastebasket and that also had a sprinkling of the green stuff. It appeared that someone had sent my wife flowers in that box. I've seen it before: when flowers are sent in a box, they are packed in ice and placed in a bed of moss. They can be exquisite, these arrangements, and that is probably why she didn't have the heart to throw it all out.

But even if it wasn't so, even if it was a mistake . . . Should I make myself crazy again, start all over, wonder if Ridolfi, or somebody else, followed her here?

No, no, I've had enough.

I decided to be quite frank with the girl. I asked her quite plainly:

"Why did you become so quiet last time when I started talking about my wife? Do you know something? Are you angry with her for some reason?"

By now I had no doubt in my mind that I was right in surmising that the two had a falling out, possibly while we were still in Paris. That they must have quarreled seemed pretty obvious, but could things really be that bad between them? Apparently, because here in London they no longer wanted to have anything to do with each other.

Whenever I mentioned our English friend to my wife, she'd say with utter disdain, "Oh, that silly goose." In other words she made no secret of her feelings.

"What makes you think she's a silly goose?" I'd inquire, trying to get her to tell me more. And thinking to myself: In Paris you didn't think so. In Paris you fell all over her. And now all of a sudden she is a goose. Another time I said to her quite casually: "Yesterday I visited that Irish family." Like hell I did, but let her think I frequented their house. But she said nothing, I simply couldn't draw out her anger.

Her eyes, on the other hand, told a different story. They seemed to be saying: I know exactly what you're up to, I know your every move, so spare me your explanations. I did, as a matter of fact. . . We were both kind of sly, actually. On days when I had a date with my little miss, I began sighing and scratching early in the morning: "I should really get some exercise," Or: "I should go and see that blasted Kodor again." Or, fretfully: "Another damn business appointment."

My wife, who was a smart woman, kindly endorsed everything. "You should get a little more exercise," she said. Or: "You mustn't neglect your business affairs." In short, she was encouraging me, if not as openly as in Paris in the old days, but still. And truth to tell, I didn't need that much prodding. I just ignored the flash in her eyes.

"I won't go out today; not today," I'd say in the morning, and by early afternoon I was on my way.

But let me expand a little on that famous falling-out. I already mentioned that my wife and the little miss were all lovey-dovey when they first met in Paris. But shortly before Miss Borton left, it was all over. That in itself is not so unusual; after all, such friendships can never last. But that it should end so abruptly, from one day to the next . . . One minute they were fine, and then suddenly things turned sour, as if they had both drunk vinegar or something ... I was there, I saw it with my own eyes. My wife wanted to appear very grand, which made me immediately suspicious, for that sort of thing doesn't become her, she is anything but grand. The girl noticed it too, and even said: "Lizzy, stop putting on airs." That's what did it, I think. My wife gave her a smile, a tight little one, a smile of hers I knew only too well. You and I are through, my friend, is what that smile said.

But what did happen between those two? For that whole business remains a puzzle, for a number of reasons. Miss Borton was, after all, a smart young lady; how was it possible that somebody like her would stand by me and get seriously involved? What happened in Paris could be seen as a lark of sorts, a jest. (English ladies on holiday do get strange ideas, everyone knows that.) But this was London. Strangely enough, she never mentioned my wife, took no notice of her, pretended she didn't exist. In short, she became callous.

But why did she? Why? Did she find out something about her? Or did Lizzy herself say anything? About her gentleman friends perhaps? I wouldn't put it past her, she did have a loose tongue, she was famous for it—something like that could very easily have slipped out. It's these questions I wanted answered when I asked why she was sore at my wife. I just wanted to get the story straight. It was high time.

"Did anything happen between you two?" I kept pressing her, turning her head toward me. "Be honest with me."

"I don't want to talk about it," she retorted. Then, with sudden passion: "I don't even want to think about her. I ... I don't like Lizzy any more."

(She
was
a different sort, I knew it. An honest kid. Sincere.)

"Really? And why don't you like her? I don't quite understand; couldn't you tell me a little more about it? It's very important to me, even if it's just one word . . . Did you confide in her at all?"

"Yes, I did."

"I thought so. And I think I also know what happened. She must have purposely, spitefully told you something that isn't true." (I realized I was changing the subject. But why did I try to defend her? To get the girl to reveal her secret? Or was it just a natural reaction?) "That's how she is, you know. She just wanted to annoy you probably, she never misses an opportunity to do that, to provoke a young girl like you—that's Lizzy for you. But you know, she is not as spiteful and mean as she makes herself out to be."

"Is that so?" she said ominously. "Then I must have misunderstood you last time . . . But maybe she isn't," she corrected herself. "Maybe you're right... I don't know her all that well. So you see, I couldn't really tell you anything special, it wouldn't even be fair; she
was
nice to me. She even gave me something—look, here it is, this is what she gave me." And she pulled a ring off her finger, a narrow little band, quite lovely actually, studded with tiny garnets.

"But now I am going to get rid of it," she said suddenly, and actually flung the ring on the floor and crushed it with her foot; you could hear the little gems cracking. (We were sitting in a small restaurant near Haymarket.)

"You just go on loving your wonderful wife then," she said, "I will not stand in your way ..." I was right in other words: she
was
nursing a grudge. But never mind, I said to myself, I have time, I'll get it out of her yet; and she won't even know it.

"Oh that Lizzy," she continued, with a great deal of emotion, "she told me the only reason I loved you was because you were the captain of that ship. Isn't that ridiculous? Does she really think I am that stupid?"

"And is that the reason why you are so angry with her?"

"No, it's not, not really. But the real reason I shall never tell you."

"Look here, Mrs. Murray," she said irritably to her milliner, "it's no good sleeping all the time; what will you do at night?" She was angry because we had to knock on her door for a long time before she opened up. Then in a different, even sterner voice, she said:

"We just want to sit in your parlor for a while, like last time."

We
had
been there before. These visits were a new development. Miss Borton, you see, didn't like to sit in restaurants, she liked to walk. But she had to realize that we couldn't go on doing that forever, either, mainly because all those walks were driving me crazy, but also because we were plagued by bad weather; it was constantly raining. And as soon as she felt raindrops, she insisted on going home. After a while I didn't let her, I simply refused to let her go home. With the result that she caught a chill and started sniffling. Which made her very angry.

"You'll be the death of me yet," she said to me, quite annoyed. But then she came up with this solution, telling her milliner that she'd like to use her room now and then for a little chat. Of course we were terribly well-behaved while there; the lady was sawing hats in the next room.

But on this particular day she had to leave, which may have been a mistake. She stuck her head in through the door and said:

"I am going to the green grocer."

So we stayed alone in a flat that smelled of green apples.

Miss Borton was a little taken aback; we were never alone before.

I began stroking her hair.

"Don't be afraid of me," I said, and looked into her eyes. Whereupon she broke into tears.

"Oh, you do really love me then," she said, flaring up with passion.

I then told her what my plans were, or rather, all I said was:

"Will you be good?" And miraculously enough, she knew right away what I was hinting at.

"You want to marry me then? But how can that be? You'll never do it, you are like me. You could never banish her from your heart."

I looked at her in amazement. There was something about this girl, something so unusual, it baffles me still. On the one hand she was immature, child-like almost, but sometimes, out of the blue, in a deep sleep, as it were, she said something which made you sit up and take notice. She had a way—I don't know—of stumbling upon your most secret feelings. Could it be that she knew me better than I thought, better than I knew myself?

"That
would
be a shame, wouldn't it," I said at first, "if it were true, I mean." Obviously, it wasn't so pleasant hearing such a thing from somebody else. But then I tried to make light of it:

"Don't frighten me so, little girl. Is that the kind of man you think I am? A sad sack who's too scared to make a move, too scared to touch anything new. . . ?"

And already I was getting hot under the collar.

For if this was really so . . .

I tried to change tack: "Look, what can I tell you about all this? Where should I begin? Should I tell you my whole life story? You ought to be smart enough to get my drift. If I told you I wouldn't want to go on living if my life stayed the same, you should know exactly what I have in mind."

I shocked myself in a way. As soon as I said these words, it was as though somebody touched my arm and said: That's enough. I realized just then why I fell silent the other time, why I needed to defend my wife in front of Miss Borton. It seems I had not known the meaning of the word shame till then. The very idea that I should make confessions, to anyone, about my life, what it had been like before, seemed absurd, impossible . . . Tempting but impossible. No way was I going to own up. No, not to anyone, let alone to this girl.

So I started berating her, for that's something altogether different. It makes dealing with serious matters so much simpler.

Did she think I was a fraud and a cheat? A prattler who abused her confidence? What else would explain why she never believed me, why she kept asking me if I really loved her?

"I am here, aren't I?" I said to her. "Or is it only words that you need? You, too, like all the rest? A man, in the flesh, is not enough? I by myself am not proof enough? Or should I start proving to you now that my feelings are genuine? Whatever I said or did up to now doesn't count? Don't
you feel
right now what my life is all about? Can't you see that for me being with you is better than anything else in the world?"

The funny thing was that all this time I was suffused with such warmth, such tenderness . . . There she stood before me, her mouth moist and half open, but also determined and defiant, like a sulking child. With all her little might, it seemed, she wanted to think this through. So I took her hand and would have looked into her eyes, but she turned away.