“Do you think you love?” asked Clarinda. “Have you ever thought in your dissection of this matter of how I have suffered for you? I suffered terribly when the baby came. I suffered for months with a painful illness. But that is of no importance. The baby is only part of me, a thing—how should I say?”
“Don’t try,” he said quickly. “Suffering is part of your life, just as this disappointment in you is an adjunct of mine, a necessary part of our existence to be treated philosophically. It amounts to nothing. When the pain is assuaged you cannot remember its effects. You speak of love, our love. What of our love? My opinion of this matter of love, is this. Love is a proper condition and should be in every house, but in the main it amounts to nothing. It has no intrinsic value. Nature does not recognize love. It only sees propinquity which it reduces to the necessity of reproduction. Do you suppose love exists in the lower forms of life? It does not. I love, but I don’t allow love to obscure my larger view. I submerge it and put it to its proper uses. What does love mean? Nothing but a moment’s forgetfulness—passion—children—probably better if never born. It is useful in its place, but in the grand scheme it has no place. Of course you suffer—why not? But you should realize that never can a woman arrive at the proper point of view. They are too animal-like and too physically disarranged. They are by far too bound down by their natural destiny. It is unnecessary for me to mention what that destiny is.”
“Do you believe what you are saying? Don’t you think you’re just talking, Peter?” Clarinda broke in as he paused for an instant.
“I believe I am not just talking for talk’s sake. I’ve no time to waste in idle words. There is one more thing. No doubt you probably think what I have said is cruel. I admit it sounds cruel. It is cruel, because all life is cruel. The coming of your child was cruel. The coming of age upon you is cruel, nature is the epitome of cruelty, it crushes without stint or consideration. It builds only to destroy.”
“What a curious philosophy,” Clarinda’s voice quavered. “Then I have failed. How queer. And the baby—”
“The baby,” he went on with even as great care as he had used, “the baby is a thing apart, an accident in life, which was desired by neither of us. Why should we have babies? I’ve asked myself this many times and arrived at no solution. Why produce these things? An uncontrolled animal instinct forces us to bring them into the world, and for what? When I see babies I generally weep. I see before me the future, the futility of youth, the sadness of the middle period, the arrival at puberty, then the going forth to seek a mate, the development of the sex instinct, and then the shriveling and shrinking into the grave. I would not say, Clarinda, that you had failed, I would not go that far. It is hard to explain. I shall try to think it out further.”
Clarinda arose from the sofa, and went to one of the long windows that gave a view out upon the garden. She gazed unseeingly over its expanse, and spoke in a tone so low that he from his distance could barely hear her.
“I do not believe as you believe, Peter, I am glad to say. I can’t tear things apart as you do, and I am glad I cannot. It is terrible to think as you think. It makes everything so black, so discouraging. Even with this view of yours there are things even more vital; if possible, more vital than money and success. You’ve said frightful things to me; you think you are analytical, logical, but you are not; you only destroy. It is horrible to me to think that it is only a little over three years since we were married and already the good in you has died, and for what? Money, and a false philosophy built upon—nothing! Oh! how I hate money, success, riches and places like this. How I wish we were poor!”
“Then, probably, Clarinda, instead of lashing you with indisputable logic, I would be beating you with a whip. Everything is comparative. You speak in broken tones, as if a tragedy had come upon you. Life is a tragedy. But it is foolish to think of it so. Why not face facts?”
“Facts! Facts! Nothing but facts!” Clarinda almost screamed. “It is a tragedy. You remember, Peter, at one time Father said our lives were too prosaic. How mistaken he was. He could not see tragedy even if it stalked directly in front of him. Poor soul. He said, if you remember, that it would be a good thing for us if we had a murder, a great theft, or that you or I should lead a double life. That this sort of thing would lend interest. Poor Father. He didn’t know that tragedy was upon me. That murder was in your heart and that you were preparing to commit murder, only in a worse way than the actual stabbing or shooting me to death. It would have been better if you had done it that way, than to have done it, as you say, with indisputable logic. It might have been better for me had I been the wife of a drunkard. He might have beaten me with whips. But at least he would have left hope in my heart. Now I have nothing. Yes, yes, Peter, you have won. You should be proud of your victory.”