The Trespasser

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.