An unfinished divorce

Front matter

Gopy:ightI\ T0 ._

Her Better Self

BY

Foreword

'TThe increase of divorce, particularly among VU the upper classes all over the world, is agitating the churches and the moralists to an extent which has not been noted before in our time and generation. Unfortunately the whole question is being discussed in a sentimental, disconnected and irrational fashion, due largely to certain preconceived notions as to the so-called sanctity of the marriage institution, and the assumption that it is the result of a divine command. Necessity as the basis of moral law, has been completely ignored, and the refusal to acknowledge the fact that centuries of experience w T ith the monogamous marriage have failed to eradicate, not to say, modify in the slightest degree, the naturally polygamous instincts of the average man.

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It will be admitted that a discussion or argument gains nothing through the suppression of facts, much as we may dislike to acknowledge them. But it is only by bravely confronting the situation as we find it, and by viewing it from all standpoints that we arrive at conclusions that will bear the test of experience and advance the state of society.

In this book the author discusses the subject of divorce from the various points of view as above outlined in a masterly fashion. The characters drawn from all classes of life are so opposed and chosen, that the mind of the reader sees through the mere machinery of the exposition and appreciates the fact that the subject is being treated in an entirely novel and heretofore, unattempted manner. The reader will perceive, as the title leads us to infer, that in the end the fundamental thesis is proved: namely, that the institution of monogamous marriage, as it exists to-day, is on the whole the best solution of the sex question that the human race has so far evolved ; in spite of the fact that it is at variance with some of the most fundamental instincts of mankind.

— Albert R. Gallatin.

I

he Paris express had left Bellegarde, and, gathering speed, was rushing through the storm towards Geneva, where it was due to arrive in about three-quarters of an hour. Seated close to the window of a first-class compartment, Jean des Ormes eagerly scanned the familiar scenes as they flitted by; but night was falling rapidly and, in the deepening obscurity, the landscape soon became indistinct. Through the pouring rain, the red and green signal lights gleamed mistily, and now and then the brightly illuminated window of a small way-station would ap- 5

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pear, only to be immediately swallowed up in the thick darkness.

“We shall soon be at Geneva,” the young man said to himself, as, tugging at his short brown moustache, he turned his eyes from the window and restlessly shifted his position.

After an absence of over a year, spent in the wilds of Eastern Africa, Jean des Ormes was returning home. His good humored but rather irresolute countenance was deeply bronzed by the tropical sun, and his tall well-knit figure was thin and lank from the hard work and exposure incident to the adventurous life he had been leading.

In certain lights gray hairs could be detected on his temples, which, together with the deep lines about his eyes and mouth, gave him an appearance of greater age than his thirty-three years would warrant. Wealthy and of excellent birth, his education had been that of others of his class, and had failed to endow him with that fixity of purpose which is indispensable to any real success in life. Married while still a youth, he had discovered after twelve months of perfect happiness, that the yoke of matrimony was galling him. Not that he had grown indifferent to his wife — she had been, and still con- 6

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tinued to be his ideal — and no other woman had ever appealed to him as she had done, but his early marriage had prevented him from fully satisfying his curiosity.

A great traveler he himself did not fully realize the fact that his frequent absences were due quite as much to his desire to learn what he should have learned before contracting permanent ties, as to any other cause. His interests and affections, nevertheless were centered about his home and had his marriage been postponed until his character had been formed by contact with the world, everything indicated that he would have made a devoted husband. Never during his voyages were wife and children long distant from his thoughts, nor did his desire to be reunited with them diminish as time went by. He was one of those unfortunate individuals on whom a restless nature, abundant means and the modern facilities for travel had bestowed the instincts of a nomad.

“Berthe will be surprised at my return,” he soliloquized. “She has no idea, that I am in Europe, but thinks me still in Darkest Africa.

I wonder how my sudden arrival will affect her. Maurice has sometimes jokingly asserted that my habit of appearing on the scene without the 7

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usual warning rather implies a lack of confidence in my wife; but God knows that my only motive is to spare her weeks of anxiety while I am at sea. However, since we had quarreled about Estelle Rondin, and considering our rather strained relations when we separated, it would perhaps have been wiser had I telegraphed her from Paris.”

He lit a cigarette and, after a moment’s hesitation, arose and reached for his valise, which had been placed in the rack above his head. He unlocked it and drew forth a dozen or more letters whose worn appearance evidenced their frequent and thoughtful reading. He turned, so that the gas lamp in the ceiling would illuminate them to the best advantage, and once more devoted himself to their perusal. Notwithstanding the fact that he knew them by heart he could not avoid showing his annoyance at their contents.

“This is not quite fair of Berthe,” he muttered to himself, “but perhaps I ought not to blame her for thinking as she did.”

“However, this is too much,” he exclaimed a moment later. “I really do not think that she ought to accuse me of such an act — anything but that — give the devil his due.”

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As he read, his countenance gradually cleared ; the letters apparently becoming more satisfactory.

“Thank God she has gotten over her foolishness,” he ejaculated, as he folded the last and replaced it in its envelope.

After he had restored the package to its former place and carefully relocked the valise he endeavored through the darkness to determine his exact position. “Here we are already at La Plaine and home once more,” he exclaimed, as the Swiss arms over the door of the custom house flashed by. “I must begin to make my preparations.”

When he had finished rolling his shawl strap and collecting his gun cases and valises, the murky sky was already aglow with the distant reflection of the city’s lights.

“Back again,” he cried joyfully as panting the great locomotive came to rest in the glass covered hall of the station. Having complied with the necessary formalities he passed out on to the platform of the Custom House. His porter hailed a cab, on the roof of which he piled the heavy trunks. When all was ready, his address was given to the coachman, the door was

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slammed to, the driver cracked his whip and away he rumbled towards his home.

The rain was now falling steadily, a hard autumn downpour which splashed against the windows. With that keen sense of delight which is excited by the renewal of one’s acquaintance with familiar scenes he noted the shining of the street lamps on the wet wooden pavement, from which arose a damp tarry smell redolent of pleasant memories. On the sidewalks of the broad avenue the passers-by were struggling w T ith their umbrellas.

A few moments’ drive brought him to the quai near the great hotels ablaze with light. On his left the brightly illuminated terrace of the casino was reflected in the dark waters of the lake and on his right shone the broad windows of the power station. Then, all this was behind him as the horse’s hoofs pounded on the hard asphalt of the bridge of the Mont Blanc. The opposite side of the lake which could now be plainly seen was outlined by misty electric lamps gleaming through the rain ; behind these like fireflies flitted the lights of the moving trams. At the pier a great lake steamboat was discharging its cosmopolitan passengers, who cursing or laughing according to their nationality, were hasten- 10

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ing to seek refuge from the drenching rain. Across the harbor glided the ferry launch with the half-muffled sound of its gasoline engine.

The bridge crossed, the carriage entered a long narrow street. In the darkness of gloomy passages shone the red lights that hung before the temples of the priestesses of civilization — the shrines frequented by the worshippers of Venus. From upper windows descended the muffled sounds of pianos accompanying lewd songs, the words of which could not be distinguished from below. He knew that they were lewd, for often he had sat half dazed by smoke and alcohol in those stuffy rooms over the bars, listening to cadaverous tenors pouring forth their crude obscenity.

At the corner of a gloomy alley his eyes fell on a harlot of the lowest grade, a street walker searching for her prey, her skirts soaking wet to the knees, her poor feathers and cheap finery all bedraggled and forlorn. The rain had streaked her painted, powdered, ghoul-like face with the dye from her hair.

Turning to the left he was driven up the Corraterie across the Place Neuve, past the Theatre and thus into the residential quarter of the town. A few r squares further and the carriage drew up

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before the handsome apartment house of which he occupied the rez-de-cliausee. He jumped to the sidewalk, and, running up the short flight of steps, rang the bell and impatiently waited to be admitted.

From the vestibule where he stood he could hear the sound of his wife’s voice as she sang at her piano in the library. “Come my friend I’ll be so good so sweet to thee” rang out in her clear soprano notes that beautiful song from “Sappho.”

“A good augury,” he thought. “It is undoubtedly of me that she is thinking.” A moment later the door opened, but to his surprise, it was a new butler that admitted him. “Why, where is Alfred?” he asked, “I hope he is not ill.”

“Oh no, sir, Madame has discharged him,” replied the man in a respectful voice, in which, however, could be detected a note of surprised resentment. “Do you wish to see Madame — whom may I have the honor of announcing?”

“You need not worry about that,” he replied, “I am Monsieur des Ormes himself. By the way, how long ago did Alfred leave?” It w^as decidedly an uncomfortable feeling that Jean experienced at finding himself thus treated as a stranger at his own door. “He left about three 12

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months ago, sir,” said the man in answer to his last question. “Well, help the coachman with my things,” he ordered as he stopped to pat a fox terrier who, at the sound of his voice, had bounded into the hall, barking with delight and jumping up to lick his face.

“Hello, Jack,” he said, “you at any rate recognize me.”

The singing suddenly stopped.

“What is it Paul, who is there?” called Madame des Ormes to the butler, “What makes Jack so excited?”

Before the man could reply Jean with rapid steps had gained the library. “It is I, Berthe!” he cried with outstretched arms. She sprang to her feet, upsetting the stool in her surprised haste, and confronted him pale and trembling.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded when she had regained her self-possession sufficiently to speak.

He stopped short, his enthusiasm killed by her words. His arms fell to his side.

“What am I doing here, Berthe? Why really I do not understand your question.”

“Did you not get my last letter?” she asked, as freeing her skirts from the fallen stool she walked

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to her arm chair on the other side of the room and sank limply into its deep cushions.

“I received several letters, which do you mean by your last one?” he replied, recovering in a measure from the astonishment her conduct had occasioned.

“Why the one I wrote you, asking you not to come back.” Scarcely had the words passed her lips when their needless cruelty became apparent to her, and she hastened to add: “That is, if you did not want to.”

“Of course I wanted to, whatever could have put the idea into your head that I did not? But come, you are only making fun of me, you never wrote any such letter,” and he bent to kiss her. She raised her face to his, but turned away again so quickly that his lips barely touched her cold white cheek. The gesture was so indicative of indifference and so plainly showed the altered state of her feelings towards him that Jean was overwhelmed with dismay.

“My God,” he exclaimed as stepping backward he fell into a chair. “Tell me,” he continued gently, “tell me about that letter and what made you write it.”

“It is very simple,” and her voice was hard and unforgiving, “I wrote you a few weeks ago in-

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forming you that as far as I was concerned you could prolong indefinitely your stay in Africa. That I considered your disgraceful conduct had rendered impossible any future relations between us and had made it necessary for me to break definitely with you if I wished to preserve even a thread of self-respect.”

He shook his head hopelessly. “Berthe, you are too hard on me. I would not have believed that you could be so cruel. It is all my fault, I know, but the idea that you, my wife, could even for a moment have entertained the thought of separating me permanently from my children and yourself is beyond belief.”

She could not altogether overcome a feeling of compassion, so evident were his sorrow and despair, and it was in a softer tone that she said : “Come, Jean, do not be so cast down ; it is hard on you and I pity you, but remember how you have tried me and how often I have forgiven.”

“I know it, Berthe, you have always been very good to me, very patient with me, but this only makes the blow the harder to bear. The last letters I received from you were so kind and loving.” The memory of her wrongs was revived by this reminder of the affection that she had, as she 15

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now thought, vainly lavished on her husband.

“Were they?” she said, and there was a sneer concealed in her voice. “It is a pity you did not receive my last, it must have crossed you — and have you forgotten my earlier ones?”

“I know nothing of the last except what you tell me and as for the others I forgive you those. You had your provocation and I am forced to admit that they contained a certain amount of truth. I must add, however, that there was much in them that was unkind and false. You know Berthe that you should not believe everything you hear.”

“Why do you not call me a liar at once and have done with it?” she cried, trying to make herself believe that he had purposely insulted her. She hoped thus to quicken the anger, which was rapidly subsiding under the influence of his distress.

“You know perfectly well, Berthe,” he replied, and the sorrow in his voice caused her eyes to fill with tears, outraged even as she felt herself to have been, “that I do not deliberately accuse you of telling an untruth, but only of having been mistaken and of having been too harsh in your judgment. Do not misconstrue my 16

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words. I have done enough against you, it is not necessary for you to discover imaginary wrongs” and he smiled sadly. “But tell me, dear,” he continued, “there is something that I cannot understand. Your earlier letters were as you admit bitter and as I have said perhaps unjust, but later their tone completely changed and they became affectionate and almost tender, such letters in fact that one would expect from a dutiful wife to her absent husband. And now, Berthe, “he held his hands towards her as he spoke “after a year’s absence you will scarcely kiss me. Tell me what I have done that you should thus suddenly change once more.”

“I did not suddenly change,” and she raised her voice angrily. “This has been coming on for years. It was you, yourself, that drove me to it.” As her fixed intention of resisting to the utmost any softening influence became apparent, a feeling of despair invaded him.

“But excuse me, dear, the change has been sudden. You may not realize it, but such is the fact. In one of your more recent letters you enclosed a pretty photograph of yourself and Jack. Do you not remember writing that you had received my letter asking your forgiveness and that you freely granted it and begged 17

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me to return? Can you not recall saying that you knew our ties were too sacred to be broken ; and that, if only for the children’s sake you would have pardoned me? Do you not remember writing this, tell me, Berthe?”

“I do not care what I wrote. I did not change suddenly, — I did not. Think of what your conduct has been for years past. You have done your utmost to destroy all the finer feelings of my nature. The devotion I gave you without grudging was like a great fire. You had become so used to its heat that you began to think that its warmth would never fail you. But you have trampled on it until at last it is extinguished. It is dead, quite dead, and no matter what you do, you can never kindle that flame again. Amid the cold ashes there lies not concealed the faintest spark.”

“Not the faintest spark, Berthe, not the faintest?”

“No, Jean the fire is dead, and by your fault, by yours only.” Great tears welled in her eyes and overflowing coursed down her cheeks. She wept for her dead happiness as she had mourned the child she lost. At first the tears fell slowly, presaging the storm to follow.

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Then faster and faster they came and her form was convulsed with sobs. He should have let her weep. But when dad a man ever understand a woman’s heart? If her affection had been dead would she have thus wept its death*: No, he must needs interfere.

“Come, Berthe/’ he cried in deep distress, “do not let your feelings overpower you. It can do no good and what you tell me explains nothing. If your affection was dead why did you forgive me and after forgiving me why do you speak to me as you do? There is something you are concealing.”

At the sound of his voice she made an effort to collect herself. “Now you are making insinuations,” she sobbed. “You are insulting me. I will not stay here to be insulted.” Before he could prevent her she had fled to her room and closed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock.

“Something serious has happened,” he said to himself as he arose and wandered restlessly about the room. “During the whole eleven years of our married life she never acted this way before, although I must admit that there have been circumstances under which such conduct would have been comprehensible.”

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He had had much experience, but he had not yet thoroughly learned his lesson. Does anyone ever thoroughly learn it? — that woman is fickle. Even had he believed this of all others, he had placed his wife in a class by herself and had admired, trusted and respected her, so now he attempted to explain her conduct in every way except the right one. He tried to find comfort in the thought that she had been vexed by his prolonged absence and overcome by the unexpectedness of his return. He hoped that in a few moments she would draw aside the portiere and that he would hear her say in a low coaxing tone: “May I come in and show my naughty boy that I love him?” and that he would feel her arms around him and hear her whisper, “Does my old lover love his woman?” So he sat down and waited.

He would not believe her when she insisted that her affection for him was dead. Perhaps his appreciation of her conduct was more influenced than he would have readily admitted by that vanity which is natural to all males. Mr. Peacock would not only consider himself a much injured fowl, but would also be genuinely surprised were Mrs. Peacock to look with eyes of favor on any tail feathers but his own, let 20

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them be as bedraggled and broken as you will. He was sure that she still cared for him; anything else was unthinkable. To him this was beyond dispute, since man-like he readily believed that which accorded with his self-esteem. At length, tired of sitting still, he arose and gazed at a full length portrait of his wife which was hanging on the wall.

Painted by Georgiano some two years after their marriage, when their eldest child was a baby a few months old, it was considered by the artist one of his finest works. The charm of the pose, the soft transparency of the brilliant coloring, the wealth of detail in the rich draping of the gown, the contrasts of light and shade, and the harmony existing between the figure and the background, combined to make of it a masterpiece.

As he studied the painting his attention was especially attracted to the hands which were very beautiful. He had always admired them, but this afternoon there was something changed in the appearance of those long slim fingers which he thought he knew so well, something about their texture and form unfamiliar to him. In the way she held her half-open fan he detected a something Spanish and coquettish which he 21

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had never before observed. From the hands his eyes followed the full downward sweep of the green brocade skirt until they rested on the little foot in its embroidered slipper, which seemed to be tapping the floor with a scarcely restrained impatience. Then he raised his head and looked the picture directly in the face. The living blonde hair formed a halo of light and joy around the oval countenance, with its clear pink and w T hite tints, smiling down on him, from above the exquisitely moulded neck and arms. The artist had painted the eyes green, so they must have looked that way to him. As for Jean he had never been quite sure w 7 hether they were green or blue. His gaze dwelling on the perfect curve of the mouth seemed to detect a mocking expression in the smile which slightly parted the full red lips. There was a barely concealed hardness about the face and although the look was frank and the chin rather weak it suddenly dawned on him that with all her apparent truthfulness and sweetness she could be unforgiving and deceitful. He could 1 not have explained how he read this in the pictured features of his wife nor why he saw it now for the first time. The artist, who had known her at the most a few months, had worked into his 22

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masterly production characteristics which years of closest communion had failed to reveal to the husband. It has been well said that one can never really know a face until he has attempted to sketch it.

“This is curious” he said to himself, “and now that I come to think of it Georgiano never really liked Berthe. He admired her, to be sure, and was delighted at the opportunity I gave him of painting her, but he always seemed uncomfortable and ill at ease when she was near. This is the more peculiar since she was so much taken by him and exerted all her fascination to gain his friendship. His coldness was always a mystery to me. Most people at once fall victims to her charms — she is so beautiful and amusing and such excellent company.

“But I wonder where Berthe unearthed this,” he said to himself as a statue of Krishna reposing in a niche to the right of the portrait attracted his attention. “It is certainly a very handsome piece of workmanship,” he added as he studied the object more attentively. “Probably a gift from some admirer,” and he resumed his restless pacing. “People always spoiled her.”

He walked to the mantel where stood the pict- 23

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ures of his children, and looked long and earnestly at them. “Dear little Jeannette,” he said as he raised to his lips the colored photograph of a baby six months old. “Perhaps after all it is just as well you died,” and he looked at the curly golden locks and the wide open blue eyes. “You were spared much suffering. Pray for your mother and for me, dear baby child. Your sweet prayers must surely move Him who said, “Suffer little children to come unto me, ffvbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.” The tears veiled his sight as he replaced the picture. “Come now this is foolishness, get yourself together.” He lit a cigarette and rang the bell.

“Did you ring, sir?” asked the butler when he. appeared.

“How long ago did Alfred leave?”

“About three months ago, sir.”

“You have been here ever since?”

“Yes, sir, I entered Madame’ s service the next day.”

“What recommendations did you have?”

“It was Monsieur Arthur Bornier, who was kind enough to personally recommend me to Madame,” replied the man, who was becoming

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uncomfortable under this series of curt questions.

“Very good. Do you know what wine there is in the cellar ?”

“There is not very much. Madame was saying only yesterday that she would order some more.”

“Is there any champagne?”

“No sir, there is none at all. Madame has been entertaining a great deal.”

“Then give us for dinner a bottle of whatever you have. You may go.”

“So Berthe has been entertaining a great deal.” He felt troubled about it, although he could not say why. He poured himself a drink of brandy. As he set down the glass he heard the pattering of tiny feet and the glad cries of his children.

“Dear father,” sobbed Marthe, the elder of the two, a pretty girl of ten, as she threw herself into his arms. “I am so glad that you have come back.”

Meanwhile the baby boy Aim6 was wildly grasping him around the legs and crying, “Look, papa, look at this, see what Uncle Arthur gave me.” The child stopped his demonstra- 25

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tions long enough to point to a train of cars he had been dragging after him.

“Very nice, my dear,” said his father, bending down to kiss the upturned face. “They are very pretty indeed, but who the deuce is Uncle Arthur?”

“Why surely father you must know,” Marthe explained for her brother, “it is Monsieur Cornier, of course.”

“Cornier,” he cried in surprise. “Does Monsieur Arthur Cornier come here?”

“Why nearly every day,” answered Marthe. “Look what he gave me.” She held up her slender wrist, around which he perceived a thin gold bracelet.

“Cornier again,” thought Jean to himself.

“And how have you been Marthe since I have been away?”

“Oh, father, I have been very well, but we have both missed you so much, have we not baby? Is he not a beautiful child?” she asked with sisterly pride, as she again hugged her father, who had seated himself and taken his boy on his knee.

“And what has papa’s baby been doing?” he asked as he lovingly stroked his curly locks.

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“What did papa bring back for Aime?” asked the child.

“Oh lots and lots of nice things. A stuffed baby crocodile.”

“Croc’dile for baby. Baby shoot croc’dile” and he made the gesture of raising a gun to his shoulder.

“And Marthe I have a riding whip of hippopotamus hide for you. I brought other things as well, but I am sure that you will like this the best. We used to take such nice rides together.”

“I am much obliged to you father. Is not that lovely? Since you have been away I have taken many splendid long rides with Uncle Arthur. We had such fun the other day.” Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled at the recollection. “We were riding through a field when a constable tried to stop us, but we were going too fast for him. Uncle Arthur is so jolly, you ought to have heard him make jokes at the man,” and she laughed merrily at the thought.