When the few birds had called in the August morning, when the cocks had
finished their crowing, when the minute sounds of the early day were
astir, Siegmund shivered disconsolate. He felt tired again, yet he knew
he could not sleep. The bed was repulsive to him. He sat in his chair at
the open door, moving uneasily. What should have been sleep was an ache
and a restlessness. He turned and twisted in his chair.
'Where is Helena?' he asked himself, and he looked out on the morning.
Everything out of doors was unreal, like a show, like a peepshow. Helena
was an actress somewhere in the brightness of this view. He alone was
out of the piece. He sighed petulantly, pressing back his shoulders as
if they ached. His arms, too, ached with irritation, while his head
seemed to be hissing with angry irritability. For a long time he sat
with clenched teeth, merely holding himself in check. In his present
state of irritability everything that occurred to his mind stirred him
with dislike or disgust. Helena, music, the pleasant company of friends,
the sunshine of the country, each, as it offered itself to his thoughts,
was met by an angry contempt, was rejected scornfully. As nothing could
please or distract him, the only thing that remained was to support the
discord. He felt as if he were a limb out of joint from the body of
life: there occurred to his imagination a disjointed finger, swollen and
discoloured, racked with pains. The question was, How should he reset
himself into joint? The body of life for him meant Beatrice, his
children, Helena, the Comic Opera, his friends of the orchestra. How
could he set himself again into joint with these? It was impossible.
Towards his family he would henceforward have to bear himself with
humility. That was a cynicism. He would have to leave Helena, which he
could not do. He would have to play strenuously, night after night, the
music of _The Saucy Little Switzer_ which was absurd. In fine, it was
all absurd and impossible. Very well, then, that being so, what remained
possible? Why, to depart. 'If thine hand offend thee, cut it off.' He
could cut himself off from life. It was plain and straightforward.
But Beatrice, his young children, without him! He was bound by an
agreement which there was no discrediting to provide for them. Very
well, he must provide for them. And then what? Humiliation at home,
Helena forsaken, musical comedy night after night. That was
insufferable--impossible! Like a man tangled up in a rope, he was not
strong enough to free himself. He could not break with Helena and return
to a degrading life at home; he could not leave his children and go
to Helena.