The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne | Page 9

position and what not, for a quo of the various
services that may be conveniently epitomized in the phrase de mensa et
thoro. The other, the only possible existence for two beings whose
passionate, mutual attraction demands the perfect fusion of their two
existences into a common life. Now to this passionate attraction I have
never become, and, having no temperament (thank Heaven!), shall
never become, a party. Before the turbulence therein involved I stand
affrighted as I do before London or the deep sea. I once read an epitaph

in a German churchyard: "I will awake, O Christ, when thou callest me;
but let me sleep awhile, for I am very weary." Has the human soul ever
so poignantly expressed its craving for quietude? I fancy I should have
been a heart's friend of that dead man, who, like myself, loved the cool
and quiet shadow, and was not allowed to enjoy it in this world. I may
not get the calm I desire, but at any rate my existence shall not be
turned upside down by mad passion for a woman. As for the
social-contract aspect of marriage, I want no better housekeeper than
Antoinette; and my dining-table having no guests does not need a lady
to grace its foot; I have no a priori craving to add to the population. "If
children were brought into the world by an act of pure reason alone,"
says Schopenhauer, "would the human race continue to exist? Would
not a man rather have so much sympathy with the coming generation as
to spare it the burden of existence? or at any rate not take it upon
himself to impose that burden upon it in cold blood?" By bringing
children into the world by means of a marriage of convenience I should
be imposing the burden of existence upon them in cold blood. I agree
with Schopenhauer.
And the dreadful bond of such a marriage! To have in the closest
physical and moral propinquity for one hundred and eighty-six hours
out of the week, each hour surcharged with an obligatory exchange of
responsibilities, interests, sacrifices of every kind, a being who is not
the utter brother of my thoughts and sister of my dreams--no, never!
_Au grand non, au grand jamais!_
Judith is an incomparable woman, but she is not the utter brother of my
thoughts and the sister of my dreams; nor am I of hers.
But the comradeship she gives me is as food and drink, and my
affection fulfils a need in her nature. The delicate adjustment of
reciprocals is our sanction. Marriage, were it possible, would indeed be
fatal. Our pleasant, free relations, unruffled by storm, are ideal for us
both.
Why, I wonder, did she think her proposal to go away for a change
would vex me?

The idea implies a right of veto which is repugnant to me. Of all the
hateful attitudes towards a woman in which a decent man can view
himself that of the Turkish bashaw is the most detestable. Women
seldom give men credit for this distaste.
I kissed the white hand of Judith that touched my wrist, and told her not
to doubt my understanding. She cried a little.
"I don't make your path rougher, Judith?" I whispered.
She checked her tears and her eyes brightened wonderfully.
"You? You do nothing but smooth it and level it."
"Like a steam-roller," said I.
She laughed, sprang to her feet, and carried me off gaily to the kitchen
to help her get the tea ready. My assistance consisted in lighting the
gas-stove beneath a waterless kettle. After that I sprawled against the
dresser and, with my heart in my mouth, watched her cut thin
bread-and-butter in a woman's deliciously clumsy way. Once, as the
bright blade went perilously near her palm, I drew in my breath.
"A man would never dream of doing it like that!" I cried, in rebuke.
She calmly dropped the wafer on to the plate and handed me the knife
and loaf.
"Do it your way," she said, with a smile of mock humility.
I did it my way, and cut my finger.
"The devil's in the knife!" I cried. "But that's the right way."
Judith said nothing, but bound up my wound, and, like the
well-conducted person of the ballad, went on cutting bread-and-butter.
Her smile, however, was provoking.
"And all this time," I said, half an hour later, "you haven't told me

where you are going."
"Paris. To stay with Delphine Carrere."
"I thought you said you wanted solitude."
I have met Delphine Carrere -brave femme if ever there was one, and
the loyalest soul in the world, the only one of Judith's early women
friends who has totally ignored the fact of the Sacred Cap of Good
Repute having