LOVE AND SUCCESS
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I come to the most evasive and difficult part of my story, which is to tell how Isabel and I have made a common wreck of our joint lives.
It is not the telling of one simple disastrous accident.There was a vein in our natures that led to this collapse, gradually and at this point and that it crept to the surface.One may indeed see our destruction--for indeed politically we could not be more extinct if we had been shot dead--in the form of a catastrophe as disconnected and conclusive as a meteoric stone falling out of heaven upon two friends and crushing them both.But I do not think that is true to our situation or ourselves.We were not taken by surprise.The thing was in us and not from without, it was akin to our way of thinking and our habitual attitudes; it had, for all its impulsive effect, a certain necessity.We might have escaped no doubt, as two men at a hundred yards may shoot at each other with pistols for a considerable time and escape.But it isn't particularly reasonable to talk of the contrariety of fate if they both get hit.
Isabel and I were dangerous to each other for several years of friendship, and not quite unwittingly so.
In writing this, moreover, there is a very great difficulty in steering my way between two equally undesirable tones in the telling.In the first place I do not want to seem to confess my sins with a penitence I am very doubtful if I feel.Now that I have got Isabel we can no doubt count the cost of it and feel unquenchable regrets, but I am not sure whether, if we could be put back now into such circumstances as we were in a year ago, or two years ago, whether with my eyes fully open I should not do over again very much as I did.And on the other hand I do not want to justify the things we have done.We are two bad people--if there is to be any classification of good and bad at all, we have acted badly, and quite apart from any other considerations we've largely wasted our own very great possibilities.But it is part of a queer humour that underlies all this, that I find myself slipping again and again into a sentimental treatment of our case that is as unpremeditated as it is insincere.When I am a little tired after a morning's writing I find the faint suggestion getting into every other sentence that our blunders and misdeeds embodied, after the fashion of the prophet Hosea, profound moral truths.Indeed, I feel so little confidence in my ability to keep this altogether out of my book that I warn the reader here that in spite of anything he may read elsewhere in the story, intimating however shyly an esoteric and exalted virtue in our proceedings, the plain truth of this business is that Isabel and I wanted each other with a want entirely formless, inconsiderate, and overwhelming.And though I could tell you countless delightful and beautiful things about Isabel, were this a book in her praise, I cannot either analyse that want or account for its extreme intensity.
I will confess that deep in my mind there is a belief in a sort of wild rightness about any love that is fraught with beauty, but that eludes me and vanishes again, and is not, I feel, to be put with the real veracities and righteousnesses and virtues in the paddocks and menageries of human reason....
We have already a child, and Margaret was childless, and I find myself prone to insist upon that, as if it was a justification.
But, indeed, when we became lovers there was small thought of Eugenics between us.Ours was a mutual and not a philoprogenitive passion.Old Nature behind us may have had such purposes with us, but it is not for us to annex her intentions by a moralising afterthought.There isn't, in fact, any decent justification for us whatever--at that the story must stand.
But if there is no justification there is at least a very effective excuse in the mental confusedness of our time.The evasion of that passionately thorough exposition of belief and of the grounds of morality, which is the outcome of the mercenary religious compromises of the late Vatican period, the stupid suppression of anything but the most timid discussion of sexual morality in our literature and drama, the pervading cultivated and protected muddle-headedness, leaves mentally vigorous people with relatively enormous possibilities of destruction and little effective help.They find themselves confronted by the habits and prejudices of manifestly commonplace people, and by that extraordinary patched-up Christianity, the cult of a "Bromsteadised" deity, diffused, scattered, and aimless, which hides from examination and any possibility of faith behind the plea of good taste.A god about whom there is delicacy is far worse than no god at all.We are FORCED to be laws unto ourselves and to live experimentally.It is inevitable that a considerable fraction of just that bolder, more initiatory section of the intellectual community, the section that can least be spared from the collective life in a period of trial and change, will drift into such emotional crises and such disaster as overtook us.Most perhaps will escape, but many will go down, many more than the world can spare.It is the unwritten law of all our public life, and the same holds true of America, that an honest open scandal ends a career.England in the last quarter of a century has wasted half a dozen statesmen on this score; she would, I believe, reject Nelson now if he sought to serve her.Is it wonderful that to us fretting here in exile this should seem the cruellest as well as the most foolish elimination of a necessary social element? It destroys no vice; for vice hides by nature.It not only rewards dullness as if it were positive virtue, but sets an enormous premium upon hypocrisy.That is my case, and that is why Iam telling this side of my story with so much explicitness.
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