Money and other stories/Helena
HELENA
t the watering-place he met her, this tall, striking-looking, raw-boned, long-legged girl. She had beautiful grey eyes, features fine drawn and cheeks curved only to the firmer mould within. She held herself erect, but her movements were ill-defined; half boy and half nymph, full of timidity and a most puzzling bashfulness; she was, in short, a type which captivated him especially in these surroundings of summer woods, sunny languor and mental repose to which he had abandoned himself. She was a student of some sort, “arts” perhaps; she had her “opinions” according to which she thought and observed, a dash of pedantry, and much more education than the average; she wore frocks with large pockets in which she tucked away her books. Her store of learning seasoned with a certain boyish candour the reserved chaste maturity of a strong introspective woman. In speaking of learned Pallas, forget not her divine virginity.
They became friends easily, amused perhaps by each other’s peculiarities. He felt that this wise virgin was making efforts to read him as though he were a new, significant book, but he found it rather pleasant. There are women who have a craze for regarding human beings as psychological novels, bless them, they seek to classify people, try to read their souls, judge of them profoundly and with singular cocksureness, and in the end arrive at judgments that are either just plain injustices, or immensely complicated tangles of error. In her errors Helena was mysteriously complicated. This man with whom she went strolling in the forest, who was fond of talking, contemptuous of many things, and amused with all, of impetuous mind, intelligent, sceptical, was for her, goodness knows why, a being after the style of Hamsun’s Falk. At home she analysed him, full of profound and not very clear perceptions; meanwhile he was bored, or slept, finding in himself less of piquant interest than in a grain of snuff.
Their walks together, however, were quite another matter. Now Helena had no leisure to think about him; she listened, her pretty eyes gazing ahead, her attention held by his restless animation. At times, gently and hesitatingly, her own voice made itself heard; she did not know that to him it rang with melodious clearness in tune with the manifold accompaniment of nature’s music. She did not know that with her serious voice and boyish face, with her coarse, severely cut dress, she was cleanly and crudely pleasing to him, a cheery note of purity and harmony, a note of Pallas at large among the woods, the sunlight and the elements. She was not aware of all this, but she had a feeling never experienced before that she was pretty; oh, but never did she resuscitate this feeling before her mirror at home, though here in the forest she sensed it with blushing delight. The delight was the greater, when he, a sceptic, told her that there was a better sentiment than love between man and woman; there are wells of harmony which are infinitely broader and more natural. For these words Helena gratefully wanted to give him her hand, but was shy on account of this same hand which she thought too large, and which accordingly she continued to conceal in her glove. Scarcely breathing a word she walked along by his side, wondering at herself that she found such pleasure in being just a girl; there stirred in her, strange to say, not the slightest motion of revolt against the self-evident masculine superiority. It was a charming and memorable day. Helena, relieved of the burden of artificially maintained pride, felt herself drawn by a strange feeling of comradeship to this man who gave her back the pleasure of being a young girl.
Very soon Helena was put to a somewhat searching test. There came to the resort a young married woman of rounded figure, creamy complexion, and exuberant charms; on the very first evening she picked on Helena’s friend and gave him clearly to understand that he would not love her in vain. This did not escape Helena, but there was, of course, no question of jealousy, good heavens no, but all at once she became stiff, restrained, ugly and almost foolishly awkward; when he directed the conversation towards her she replied disagreeably and as though irritated. She hated herself for this cruel suffering and bravely she controlled herself; that night she was almost in tears, but then she became convinced that he was nothing but a braggart, a self-indulgent idler, a common-place egoist; with this consolation she fell asleep happily. She went out earlier in the morning in order not to meet him, and climbed the wooded height at the summit of which they had “discovered” a huge stone seat, with a passably pretty view of the watering-place. She sat there, filled with a spirit of sacred solitude, experiencing to the full the peace of exalted abnegation, she pardoned the whole world. But look there! was not that yesterday’s braggart climbing up the sunny path through the flowering brambles and verbascum? She wanted to run away, but only offended Pallas ran away; Helena stayed, and in spite of all she could do her eyes filled with tears. She turned away lest he should see, lest he should look into her eyes, and above all because to-day she was not at all pretty. He sat down and talked, but not a word that anything had gone wrong or that he was seeking her to offer an explanation of any sort: but he spoke gravely and did not force her to be cheerful. And thus, blazing noon found them together on that stone seat in friendly conversation, which meant simply that everything was completely and utterly right. Down below, across the town square, there floated a white blob with a red parasol: perhaps it was the blonde beauty. Yes, it was midday and the man knew very well that a long, long time had passed since they should have gone down; must he then sit there until evening Helena sat there with her long hands pressed between her knees and smiled, not with her lips, nor even with her eyes, but in her mind.
“How late is it?” she asked at length.
“Two o’clock,” replied the man, controlling himself with superhuman efforts so as not to sound discontented.
But what were hours to Helena? In truth “there is a higher feeling than love,” and Helena felt herself infinitely above love and passion: never, never would she know weakness. At last she rose; on the way back she picked a few flowers, and put them in her belt, she meant to keep them as relics. The man sighed: it is not very easy to perform an act of charity. They descended at four o’clock, which was a notable scandal in the life of the watering-place.
Undisturbed days followed, when they went out together with joy unspoilt. God scattered discoveries and adventures along their paths; they found nesting birds, or scared a sitting hare; then on a blazing hot afternoon they sat by a deserted rural bowling alley, in solemn silence they sat amidst hens and chickens; another day they were overtaken in the fields by a heavy shower which drove them, happy couple, to seek shelter in a low straw-thatched hut, deserted for the season by its youthful guardian of the fruit crop; a rainbow raised before them a magic triumphal arch; one morning they came upon a family of deer at pasture in a forest clearing; they knew where amongst the young trees unknown to all the world there grew a mushroom of record size. They buried in another place a dead goldfinch, found encian and charming cyclamen, came across an old woman whom they asked for milk and who delighted Helena by calling her “young madam.” There were countless adventures and happenings which they lived through together and for which they were equally grateful. Helena accepted as her own all his boyish delights, enlivened by a double pleasure, the pleasure of something new and the pleasure of companionship in interest. They thoroughly agreed in everything that pleased him. She said “our cyclamen” though it was he who found it; everything was his doing, everything passed at first through his eyes and flowed from his wealth: poor Helena, where was your share in this joint world? Ah, Helena did not know, but smiled with downcast eyes; her share was this harmony, her merit was great, her heart clean and humble: it just happened that he discovered everything, and she made of it mutual delight and fulness of harmony.
So, good-bye for to-day, Helena, to-morrow we shall go somewhere else and thanks to you for the happiness of to-day. ***** He went away and Helena wrote to him; at first he was startled by her crude, inelegant, too large handwriting; he perceived in her violent feelings hitherto unnoticed. Her style struck him as artificial, her cheerfulness forced; he did not see why he must read about encian now withered or about the finding of the bones of a dog in “our quarry.” It is strange how little survives of the most beautiful harmony when people are no longer together.
Helena in turn came back to town in the autumn, and lost much, very much, on the soil of Prague. He liked well enough to walk with her on the outskirts of Prague where there was in progress a minute, detailed struggle between the land and the town. Incomparable occasions these, full of desolation and weariness when one seems to wander over a now hushed battlefield, the earth wounded and the town expiring in a mass of debris. Then, too, there are areas of great simplicity, like the White Mountain and the river, beautiful and mysterious beyond all rivers in the world. There are the morning hours, most precious of all, and all unknown to town-dwellers. Sailing thus early in the morning in a small steamer against the stream, so intimate are the voices heard that you would not believe human habitations can be so near.
One morning they went together along the Bráník towing-path. It was a silvery-grey autumn day, the Vltava a stream of light and of soft metallic murmurs. There was in all these surroundings much unusual tranquillity, and so much of soothed grief that involuntarily he began to speak of himself. He talked of all he had wished to be and what he had not become, what he had wanted to do and what had escaped him; he complained of himself and, abandoning all reserve, poured out all his discontent in one unbroken torrent. He felt that by his confession he was ridding himself of all diffidence and weakness. It seemed to him that he was in truth regarding this stony towing-path from afar, from the opposite bank of the broad river; here walking alongside the stream were two people, utterly insignificant in the presence of the river, the plain and the sky; they only emphasized the loneliness and forlornness of the universe. It was infinitely more solitary than in the depths of the summer woods.
“Helena,” he said, “why, this is not life at all. It is a growing old, a dullness, a passing of time, or what you like, but it is not life. I am good for nothing and can do nothing: but if I start doing something I feel in advance, why on earth do I? Of course I myself have nothing from it. I myself! I myself! My whole life long I have thought only of myself, but, behold! nothing, as a matter of fact, have I ever done for myself. That is not life. Help yourself, man! But how can an egoist help himself? Helena, I have gone through many experiences, but the saddest of all is to feel one’s own weakness. I am tired of so many things. You are listening to all this, and it is all so worthless. Your patience astounds me. Look there, what a large fish that man has caught.”
He pointed with his finger. Helena raised her downcast eyes, but not to follow his finger; she beamed brightly on him. This full glance perplexed him and, not knowing how to continue, he toned down what he had just said, went into details and finally started to jest. Helena, however, was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not speak and would not listen. The walk finished almost out of humour. On the steamer they did not speak: he was rather bored and glad to say good-bye. The rest of that day is of no importance: early on the morrow brought him a letter from Helena. His heart full of misgivings he opened the envelope.
“While it is still to-day,” began the letter in agitated script, “I must thank thee, dear, my dearest. . . .”
He put down the letter as if struck, this sudden “thee,” this “dearest” . . . had the girl taken leave of her senses? He walked up and down the room, this needed getting accustomed to. He felt ashamed and humiliated and wanted to sink through the floor. What next?
While it is still to-day I must thank thee, dear, my dearest, for the most beautiful day of my life. You have given me all, you have given me love. Until yesterday I lived through a weary dream which was not life. To-day I stand at the window with open arms, is it thee, is it thee for whom I extend them, my dearest, is it thee? I know I am mad, and that perhaps in a very little time I shall be sorry for what I have written to thee. I hasten with all speed to tell all before that time of regret arrives for rather would I regret than not have said it. I kiss thee, I kiss thee, my dear, do not question me because I do not know what is happening to me it was not life but a terrible dream, my dear thank you thank you I am thine, and want nothing else. Jesus, do not prevent me from saying everything. I wish I could embrace thy feet, throw all my body beneath thee because I am so much thine already that there is nothing else I can do bear me up my darling, I have no power, I place my head on thy shoulder and oh kiss me, does thou not know, cruel one, that no one has ever kissed me? Ah, if I were only with thee!
Helena.
Dear dearest, I am afraid of evening. Give me thy hand think of me, it is my first night!
He read in pained alarm, inexorably noting every error of punctuation, every desperate incoherence of the foolish letter. His feeling of shame increased. What have I done, he reflected, how have I caused this? Heavens! Did I, perhaps, make love to her yesterday? What is wrong with her? Is it really a fit of hysteria? Perhaps it is intended for someone else, it occurred to him. And hastily he looked through the crazy letter again. Unfortunately there was no doubt about it: the “darling” is I myself. When did I speak to her of love, when did I tell her a lie? Certainly she pleased me but solely for the one simple reason that there was no question at all of love. . . . Heavens, what has gone wrong?
He read her letter through once more, and felt in it her feverish panting breath. Savage, mad, must have been the struggle of that manly maiden before she lost her head. But, he paused in evil suspicion, was there such a struggle after all? Perhaps she was only waiting for my first weakness to throw her hysterical arms around me. Of course, I did complain and groan; a fine opportunity, by jove, for her to unload on me her burthensome virginity. Ah, Helena, he trembled, forgive me, you did not do that. You wanted to help me, one of the disappointed, you wanted in some way to sacrifice yourself, to do something great. Silly child, how did you imagine such a thing?
Once again he scrutinized her letter, more and more repulsive it seemed to him. The writing is all awry, written in the twilight, the hand wet with perspiration, evidently a crisis. There is sign or shadow neither of calculation nor of magnanimous and foolish sacrifice. She wanted kisses, aye, and more than kisses. She is twenty-five years old. The revolt of nature is powerful and terrible. He recalled her Pallas-like figure, the sexless purity of womanhood not yet in bloom. A something, a taint fell upon her. Poor Helena, if you were at least beautiful no one would be surprised at your passion and you would not be degraded in anybody’s eyes. But you are not beautiful, and there is nothing left but to be unjust to you. Go! Helena; if anything is certain on this earth it is that I do not love you.
Again he thought of her, thought kindly of her and seemed to see her clear benignant eyes. No, Helena, wise maiden, I do not believe even that; it is no regular movement of nature, no carnal revolt of the flesh, but some extraordinary mistake. Your heart is confused, to-morrow it will be calm and settled, but alas, you will remember what you have done and it will be a dreadful shame and humiliation to you. You will despise yourself and be in an agony of fiery shame. You will never, never want to set eyes on me again. Helena, how can I tell you this? Do not think about it, I knew at once that things were not so. I have burnt the letter and thrown away the ashes and now I do not know what was written in it; obviously something to say that you love me in the most noble way.
He rushed to the table and began to write . . .
Thanks for the words of love: I feel myself unworthy. Thou givest me more than my poor heart can ever repay. I am a worn-out man, my little girl, and the world has not made me as good as thou deservest.
And now, dear Helena, we can be wise once more. You have spoken the word that had to be spoken: You are brave and wonderful. It was indeed necessary that we should sincerely. .
He put down the pen. It is still quite clear that I do not love her: how is it possible not to say so? Mechanically he scribbled on the writing pad the word “never” and then the bell rang. He heard the servant open the outer door; someone quietly spoke and knocked on his door. He called “come in,” but no one entered. He went and opened it himself; Helena was leaning against the doorpost pressing both her large hands to her breast.
“Come in, please,” he said with set teeth and shut the door behind her, then as he wrung his hands, “How could you, Helena, how could you?”
Helena looked aside, her lips were trembling painfully. “I came to tell thee . . .” she began.
“I know what you want to say,” he broke in desperately. “Sit down, Helena.”
With downcast eyes she sat down on the edge of the sofa and crushed her bag in her fingers. “I have come to ask you to give me back that letter.”
“I had just started to write to you,” he answered quietly. “What a fright you gave me.”
She turned to him, eyes full of despair.
“Now, Helena,” he said softly, “how did you sleep?”
She stood up, threw away her bag, took off her hat and removed her coat. The awful part of it all was that he had not asked her to do this. The garment was caught on some button, and with her trembling fingers she could not unfasten it, but he did not move to help her. She pulled violently and blindly, and something ripped: she let the coat fall, he bent down quickly to lift it up, and then she grasped his head with both hands.
With a jerk he straightened himself, his eyes dark with hatred; but as she held him convulsively, she staggered at this movement and would have fallen; he had to catch her with both arms. Then her hands loosened, he felt her fingers quiver on his face with caressing, burning agitation as she fell with all her weight into his embrace: her head thrown back, her eyes closed, dry lips offered themselves to him as in a last kiss above the exposed and chattering teeth, the point of her tongue trembling between them, her face grey-pale and feverish; thus she upraised her face to him in the horror of passionate longing. She was almost ugly; everything was extinguished in that face when the eyes were closed. He breathed a sibilant sound of disgust and kissed her lightly on the face; tenderly, most tenderly, he removed her hands from his face and said with ponderous melancholy, “Sit down, Helena.”
Although intoxicated, she sat down and covered her face with her hands.
“Helena,” he said brokenly, walking across the room, “I do not want this meeting to cause you any after regrets, I beg of you to be sensible. Í do not recognize you, God knows, I do not understand you at all; but I am afraid that to-morrow you will think reproachfully of me.”
Helena sat there stonily.
“Forgive me,” he went on bitterly, “for thinking to-day about to-morrow. It would be better if there were no to-morrow. Say, are you certain that to-morrow will not revenge itself upon you?
Helena, with face covered, shook her head.
“You came to put yourself into my hands; here I am, do as you will with me. But girl, how is it possible? Am I to hold you, to embrace you, to take possession of you? How can I know in what way I shall injure you the most? Ah, Helena, spare me this, I beseech you; do not ask me to decide what to do with you; my will is gone, but I am fond of you. Pull yourself together, Helena.”
She sat there dumb, motionless, rigid; he was intensely sorry for her and anxiously sought for the tenderest words in which to explain the state of affairs. So as to be nearer to her, he sat on the head of the sofa and looked down on her coarse hair.
“Now look here,” he repeated gently, “pull yourself together. You are pure and proud, do not lower yourself. I know you too little; I have a feeling that to-day is sent to us by fate that I may begin to esteem you infinitely more highly than hitherto. Helena, I delighted in you as an innocent girl; I will respect you as a woman who has conquered herself. You will be sure of yourself and forget.”
Then Helena did something unexpected and very simple. As he sat above her with his knees raised, she uncovered her face and placed her chin on his knee with a movement inexpressibly childlike and winsome; in that position she became motionless and closed her eyes as though she would say: “Now talk as you like.”
He was confused, for he felt himself full well the falsity of all that he was saying.
“Helena,” he began again sadly. “Is it a great fault that I am not young enough to believe in love? Is it a great fault that when I hear the word love I think at once of pain and disappointment, crude sensuality, the vilest contacts, falsehood and a parting? Is it a great fault?”
With closed eyes Helena shook her head. He felt at his knee the violent beating of the artery in her throat; pale and as if asleep she breathed rapidly through parted lips. “Now,” seemed to say this coaxing face at this moment, “all is one to me, let me stay thus.” She almost became beautiful in this motionless attitude: she looked like an ivory mask. He bent over her and said in a low tone: “Helena, it is not love that you should desire, it is tiresome and always degrading: it is not for you. If I ever saw you tread that path with another, whoever he might be, I would call to you in terror: ‘Helena, Helena, do not go that way, it is not for you; you cannot cross where others walk, what they can endure would crush you; I do not know whether it is because you are more wise or more unhappy.’ I do not profess to understand you, but I am afraid for you. What more can I say to you?”
Helena’s cheeks were slightly tinged with red. She looked strangely charming, her features grew tender, she looked out mysteriously in no particular direction, through eyelids that formed narrow slits. He stroked her hair and said softly:
“Helena, you must not come to me again.”
Not a quiver crossed her face, she would have endured any blow, it seemed, in that position. He sighed and touched her face.
“Good-bye, Helena.”
Obediently she stood up and allowed her coat to be put on. He helped to put in her hat-pin and she smiled at him.
Having moved away, she turned vehemently and shook his hand with all her strength, “you . . . are . . . so . . . noble,” she said, blushing, with downcast eyes, as though thanking him that she had come to no harm. In spite of himself he was compelled to bite his lips.
From that day they never met again; it was really impossible that they should.
In after years he heard of Helena again. He learnt that she spoke of him with evident animosity as of one who had done her a grievous wrong.
He was sorry for that, even after years had passed.