Introduction
My Wife by Artemisia Charitaki is one of my favourite short stories. It’s not a particularly good one: I came across it in an anthology of Greek short stories, which I lent to a friend, and which never saw again (the book, not the friend); I missed the story, so I went and bought a newer edition of the anthology — only to find that the editors had removed the ‘less remarkable’ stories from it, with My Wife being one of the casualties. I finally found it again because my grandfather had a copy of the original edition in his house.
I am fond of the story because of vanity: the narrator reminds me of myself, and we all like reading about our own experiences. But the reason I thought it was worth translating is that it might be the best depiction of privilege I’ve come across. There are many good books about rich people, but they almost always fall in one of three pitfalls:
They mistake wealth and privilege as the cause of bad people’s behaviour. A notable example of this is The Great Gatsby. The Buchanans are bad and selfish and mean, but it’s not wealth that causes them to be so.
They are astute observations of behaviours, not inner thoughts. Here I’m thinking of the light-hearted works of Nancy Mitford or P.G. Wodehouse.
Finally, they’re unrepresentative. Works by Virginia Woolf or Aldous Huxley focus on intellectuals — who are only a small minority of the privileged; the same is, I think, more-or-less true about books like Vanity Fair or Middlemarch. In the latter, the book focuses on people like Dorothea or Lydgate, who are far less representative of their class than the less prominent Arthur and Cecilia Brooke, or Rosamond Vincy.
My experience of people who were born with wealth and status is that they are careless. Nick does call the Buchanans careless in The Great Gatsby, but I think he is misusing the term — carelessness does not mean callousness; it’s more akin to obliviousness. I think people are naturally more or less optimistic, but being born to an easy life naturally amplifies one’s natural optimism, and mitigates one’s inclination to pessimism.
And so, the narrator of this story feels ‘everything was made for pleasure, for love, for competition’, because of course he does — he was born to a world where these things are plentiful. He rejects marxism because he cannot tolerate marxists’ bleak outlook on life, rather than because he disagrees with its logic. And the biggest issue in his life is his inability to form a deep bond with his wife, her refusal to let him into her inner world. Someone like him cannot comprehend why anyone would ever be guarded, why they would be detached, and he feels his wife’s irony as a personal affront. Which, fine, fair enough, I can see why this might be a cause of pain; but the narrator cannot put his life into perspective. He lets his (in the grand scheme of things, immaterial) problems get in the way of his career, and his contribution to the world.
Not everyone born with a silver spoon is like that — many are more grounded, more down to earth (hopefully I am not quite as annoying as the narrator! (Though ‘annoying’ is the adjective my wife uses the most when describing me.)). But I really do think this mentality is a natural consequence of a frictionless start to life; nor should it be repressed — it’s good to be optimistic, positive, bubbly! — but it should be channeled correctly, and people with privilege should remember to frame their problems in the right context. (One of the few disagreements my wife and I have on parenting is the extent to which we should be validating our children’s feelings: she believes children’s feelings ought to be recognised, whereas I think that sometimes it’s fair enough to tell children (and grownups…) that their feelings are not legitimate, because they stem from inconsequential causes.)
A note on the translation
Like I said, I think the story itself is not particularly well-written, so I’ve taken a knife to it after translating it. I’ve removed some passages that add little to the story, and pared back some of the narrator’s excessive lyricism, and his clunky metaphors and similes. If you’re interested, you can read the first draft of the translation, which was much more faithful to the original, here.
Anyway, without further ado, here’s My Wife. It’s a rather long post, so you may want to use my friend Victoriano’s tool to send it to your Kindle :)
My Wife
I met her during the last year of my studies, and she stood out among the many others I had met and fancied. A pretty girl, intelligent and vivacious. I took her for one of those modern types, who wanted to be equal to men, involved in everything, making lots of noise and little work.
I saw her often her among the people crowding the university yard and lecture theatres. There was something proud and ironic in her bearing. She didn’t talk much to boys, but this didn’t phase me because I didn’t lack for girls at the time. I was the youngest child in my family and I had plenty of everything: money, books, parties, girls. My two sisters had married well, and I was drowning in their presents. I had two brothers, district attorneys in Patras and Anapli. My father looked after our estates in in the village — and they weren’t insubstantial — like a lord in his manor, generous and kind-hearted. He had been a benefactor to the entire county, and everyone thought of him with love and gratitude. When I wanted to see my family, I’d take the train from Athens and tour the entire Peloponnese. I’d visit everyone. They all welcomed me with affection, listened to my nonsense with interest, and ladened me with gifts.
My sisters had considered a number of brides for me — all I had to do was choose. People knew that I was good at my maths studies, and that I had lots of money and a good heart, and so every debutante had their eyes set on me. And I met them all with pleasure too — at their house, or on walks, or at my sister’s, whom they’d visit and find me there, supposedly unexpectedly. I was overcome by the beauty and variety: for three years already I was being thought of as an eligible bachelor, and I hadn’t succeeded in focusing my attentions — I wanted to keep them all happy. In Pyrgos there was a blondie with angelic hair who’d drop the role of contestant and would open her heart. She’d come to the window and blow me kisses and throw roses at me, and I’d send her kisses and roses back. Another looked snow-white in her black robes, with velvet in her dark hair. She had an aristocratic air, like a queen! The role of wife would suit her. And many others, from twenty years old, who knew the game and were coquettish, to a thirteen year old who saw me as her best friend and always had a riddle for me to solve.
In the evenings we had fun discussing potential brides. My sisters were pressuring me to choose, and I’d consider my options. I tried analysing them all and choose whomever scored highest, but it was in vain. There was no solution to this equation — they were all different and lovely. The problem remained unsolved. Clearly my mathematical genius was too narrow when faced with the infinite creativity of our Maker. You’d think he did it on purpose, this cunning old man, to tease me: he made so many living flowers with so many colours and so many tender hearts, saying: here, choose if you can.
With my father I was more serious. He had high hopes for me: I was expected to do well in my studies and enter politics. He had influence over the entire county, his sons-in-law were important businessmen, my brothers had strong connections, and so we’d make for a powerful political factor, with half the Peloponnese under our control.
During an evening out with my friends, we started talking about the girls in the university. There weren’t yet any girls in the maths department, so we had to compete with the students in the other schools, and mainly the philosophers, who had the lion’s share of women. Someone mentioned my crush: they said she was different, she was the most well-read student in the department, maybe in the entire university. There were rumours that she was a communist, though she wasn’t advertising it. But she had often spoken with emotion about the terrible inequality in the distribution of wealth.
The thought of this woman, who faced with such seriousness the issues of our times, made us feel gloomy, and I felt my heart strangely heavy. But I pushed away this melancholy — it was against my character —, I lifted my glass and recalled my friends to order: ‘gentlemen! If it is the philosophers’s job to define problems, it is the mathematicians’s to solve them. You have my word, I will make sure to give the lady a satisfactory answer to all the social questions that are troubling her…’
I had decided to become involved in her life, for fun: until then, girls were chasing me — it was about time I did the chasing. Hm! I could smell trouble, but, what the hell, a love like this was worth a spot of trouble. Was she that beautiful? you may ask. No; but she was distinctive. Her face was, thin, ennobled by thought, with temples and forehead like ivory, and eyes in which I could study astronomy: big, in deep sockets, calm and thoughtful. But she didn’t have a permanent expression. When I saw her enter through the university gates, in her grey blazer, always clean and pressed, she was pensive and rather mirthless, with eyes half-shut, like closed flowers in the sun’s glare. When she strolled the courtyard, chatting with her classmates, her face seemed longer, austere, and her eyes were energetic and sharp as a blade… I strolled around too at those times, studying at my leisure all the variations of the beauty that only I seemed to be able to see in that cloudless visage. By God, sometimes I saw her laugh when talking to her girlfriends, in a restrained way of course, but I considered that a chink in her armour, and did not despair.
I once spoke of her to my cousin, a law student, who loved me a lot, so that I wasn’t afraid he’d laugh at me. He was not at all encouraging.
‘Stay away from people like her,’ he said. ‘It’ll only cause you unnecessary pain. Listen to me, I have much more experience with the philosophy department. People there are very strange, worse even than the theologists. They think themselves wise and great out of nothing. From a single line they derive entire theories; and from one historical anecdote, they draw conclusions about entire eras and all of humanity. They compete with each other on who has the most difficult taste and the broadest ideas. They never get anything done: they just criticise — they’re happy to just keep a notepad and note mistakes. They are, in short, pathetic. And your crush is the most representative specimen of the species. She thinks we’re all air-headed and she doesn’t pay any attention to us. I don’t suppose you think you’re the only one she’s ensnared…’
‘I haven’t been ensnared,’ I protested. ‘It’s just fun…’
‘… and besides she’s a communist,’ he said. ‘I know it from a good source. It wouldn’t surprise me to see her at a protest. And they say she talks well, enchantingly. Don’t bother with all that, you poor soul,’ he said in the end, tapping me on the back. ‘You can have any girl you like, what do you want with this one? You’re a spoilt child, you need laughter, not all this…’ And he rushed to his classes.
I felt his last words like a slap in the face. Was I really a spoilt brat, who only appealed to little girls, but could not claim the interest of a serious woman? I had to show my cousin, and everyone else with that opinion, that I was a man, and knew how to be serious when I had to.
I decided to learn philosophy and marxism. I began with philosophy, but dropped it quickly. I don’t mind studying difficult ideas, but I dislike confusion and intelligibility — and philosophy seemed to me a tangle of knots. Anyway, I didn’t have to know philosophy, but marxism was for everyone, regardless of department. I was determined to stick to the course, and even become a marxist. Why not? How was she one? How were so many others? I too had the strength to renounce my own interest for the good of mankind.
I read many pamphlets and listened to many speakers. I had to restrain myself from hitting them. The bastards, they had a pathological, almost sadistic need to convince me that everything is bleak and grim. My soul rebelled, I wanted to shout at them they were all narrow-minded liars. For me, the world was a garden of infinite joy: the students filling their classrooms and courtyards, the people working to improve their lot, the elegant women filling the streets and cafes — I felt everything was made for pleasure, for love, for competition. I could not suffer a justice that wanted to do away with luxury and with it, joy.
My bitterness was immense when I realised that the distance separating us was incalculably larger than I had thought. I belonged to a totally different set. My folks sought to outdo all the powerful families in our land, and to join government. She was renouncing status, and was fraternising with the humble and beat-down. Well, I couldn’t see things her way. And since my nature meant I could not stomach marxism, I became its most fanatical enemy.
A wild pride, which occasionally awoke in me and smothered my tenderer feelings, flared up again. I pushed away the gloom and found my old self. My psyche reacted desperately against all sadness, as though sadness was a disease that upset my balance. When in a good mood I could do great things. I could even become a politician, like dad wanted. But my work had to be joyful, or at least, I should be permitted to do with with joy.
I threw myself back at my studies, which I had neglected, and the hours passed without my noticing. I wrote down problems in my notebook, analysed them, broke them down into parts, and saw grand theorems unravel in front of me, which made the world make sense. In the same way, Love helped make sense out of the chaos of the material world. Love and Mathematics: the only Gods who fit in my temple. That’s how I was, and that’s how I wanted to remain. Others are made to see the bleak side of everything; I was made to see everything white and rosy. But the entire ordeal hadn’t gone by without leaving its mark. I felt that I had lost my erstwhile guileless good spirit.
Until then, the only words I had exchanged with my crush were greetings, which my tenderness had made heartfelt. But towards the end of the year, something happened that put me in regular contact with her. There was a drive to support students with tuberculosis, which lasted for over twenty days. Various committees were set up to collect money, and organise performances, lectures, and balls.
Totally by chance, we found ourselves on the same committee. I put in all of my energy: I ran around all day, selling tickets for lectures and balls, and collecting money. I met her at noon and in the evening at the office, tired from all my work. I would give her the money I’d collected, and would help her with record-keeping. She’d often tell me ‘if we had more people like you, we’d have great results.’ And I, modestly, would respond that I wished my studies permitted me to devote even more time to the cause.
I tried to not show my interest in her. I treated her with the greatest politeness, but also the greatest indifference. But every now and again I’d give away myself like a fool, without realising it. One day I lost my temper because she wanted to leave during a May downpour, which had flooded Athens. She stayed and starred at me like a told-off child, surprised by my outburst.
During that short period of our collaboration I felt the greatest moments of pleasure of my life. How many times in the following years did I not despair with the doubt that she never loved me completely and unconditionally, the way I loved her, that I would never manage to conquer the soul of this woman! And yet, back then, I was almost certain. When she’d lift her eyes from writing and look at me, the light that was trapped in their deep sockets would suddenly burst out, and open them ecstatically, like two large violets. I thought I could see in them the same thrill I felt in my own soul. My love for this girl was a religion — and it couldn’t be otherwise. Only on my knees could I talk to her of love, without insulting her purity. Now I could explain that ironic and somewhat contemptuous look she assumed when random people tried talking to her. Surely, they were attempting to flirt incompetently.
I decided to marry her. How happy that idea made me! I’d take her one fine morning to my mum, just as she was, her school bag with her. What faces they’d all make down there! They all thought my wife would surely be from an old family, with millions to boot.
But to me, conquering that girl had become a matter of life or death. Yes sir! I, the rationalist. My whole being was asking for her. If I had her close to me, so I could look into her eyes, I’d be a stronger and happier man.
When I graduated, the news of my engagement to a student dropped like a bomb in the village. My sisters rushed home. I welcomed them reclining on the sofa, with a half-smile on my face. They started crying — ‘You, with such a bright future, marrying someone without anything to her name!’
‘But I don’t have anything to my name either, save a university diploma.’
The crying got louder. Nothing to my name? Didn’t I want my father’s inheritance? Was I renouncing my family, did I wish to live like a tramp for her? It wasn’t that, I said. My father made his own fortune, I wanted to do the same. I was not renouncing my family at all; I would carry our name without shame — and give it to my wife to honour.
The crying got louder still. I was having a blast.
Later, when I brought my wife home, everyone’s attitude changed. ‘Oh, if she’s like this…’ ‘But because she’s like this’ I responded.
I finally had my treasure, in my house. I could see her, hear her, feel her! I praised the Lord, who made the world beautiful and magical. I was in constant care for her not to fall ill, not to ruin her good mood, not to feel sad. I always hurried back home. My friends made fun of me, they’d call my name whenever they passed me by, and I’d wave back: I don’t have time, my wife will worry.
My wife was very attentive to my father, my mother, and my elder brother, who was at home on leave. Me, she left alone in a corner. I understood her reasons: she wanted to earn their love, to make them forget she didn’t have a dowry. But still, I felt my heart heavy. She didn’t show me as much affection as I wanted. The time she was caressing my mother, she could be caressing me. When she’d remember me, she’d come sit next to me, hold my hand tenderly, or would sit on a stool, place her elbows on my knees and talk to me so sweetly I forgot about everything. ‘Do you love me?’ I’d ask her. She’d look at me curiously: ‘no, not at all! Whoever said I did?’ But I could feel her caresses become more passionate, and her eyes brighter.
My wife quickly impressed our social circle. The men were especially enthusiastic. A friend of mine kissed me and said ‘congratulations, you have married a wonderful woman. You can work with her as well as have fun. So what that the doesn’t have a dowry? I married a ridiculous creature and I can’t even go home. I’ll end up miserable.’
Poor man. He had a nagging and peculiar wife. Still, I was missing something too — inconsequential, of course, but I hadn’t felt complete pleasure. I didn’t know my wife in depth, I didn’t know all the hidden corners of her soul. I knew few things of her life, her studies, or her beliefs. Everything I knew of her world, I had seen or guessed myself. At any rate, I was hopeful we’d get to know each other better; we were after all in the first few months of our marriage.
Every day she conquered me more and more. Her life at home had a beauty and refinement I couldn’t have imagined a year before in the student with the plain and masculine comportment. Her simplest movement had grace. The way she held a chair, the way she sat, or bent over towards whomever she was talking to, with a slight ironic smile on her lips. Even the way she coughed was delightful. Her feet, too: small, in shoes that were true masterpieces, were more expressive than most faces. Some times she tread lightly and rhythmically, as though she were dancing; other times, her steps were heavier, hurried and playful, or subdued and quiet. They revealed her mood to such an extent that only her eyes were more expressive.
I wanted her near me, to hold her in my arms, to feel all the warmth of her rich existence, and to give her mine. But she either did not want to understand, or was toying with me. I hardly had her in my arms when she’d slip away, laugh, and tell me to behave, otherwise she’d tell my mother.
I did not insist. I’d pretend to not care, and would go to the garden or shut myself in my study. She was too smart not to see the effect of her attitude on me, despite my pretending; and yet she never came to make up. She never came to my arms, to caress me, to heal me. And she could caress so nicely when she wanted! And she was caring: she’d make sure I didn’t sit in a draft, she’d prepare food I liked, and would make up all kinds of jokes to make me laugh, but the bitterness settling in my soul could not be washed away like that.
I remember one such episode in particular. She was looking after her flowers in the garden, and I was reading in my study, when a thin spring rain broke out. I put my book down and starred outside the window. The rain became stronger and I rapped on the glass for her to come in. She ran up the stairs all wet. Her hair and the lace of her dress were full of raindrops, her cheeks and lips like freshly cut roses, and her eyes bright, as though they had absorbed all of nature’s sweet light. I had just taken her hand and was bringing my head close to hers when mum came in. My wife jumped away from me with a sudden movement and ran towards the door; she sent me kisses with her hand, smiling ironically, and disappeared in the other room. Was she shy because she saw mum? I don’t know. But if I had a gun at that moment, I’d have killed myself. I would never expose my tenderness to her irony; but I could kill myself, so she would see me dead and understand how important her love was to me. That’s how unfair and pointless I thought her game. I took my raincoat and my hat and I walked to one of our fields, half an hour away. I was sadder than I had ever been in my life — I can’t remember whether I even cried. How could she leave me at those moments when I was filled with love? Did she not love me? Did she only consent to marry me because I was rich, and she could give herself to her studies? But no, that wasn’t possible; she had such integrity — she wouldn’t have married me if she didn’t love me.
I returned home tired, with my heart heavy with sadness — my heart that knew nothing besides fun. My wife was waiting for me concerned. She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked at me in the eyes. She found me, it seems, much changed, because she covered her face with her hands and burst out crying. If she had thrown herself in my arms, so I could feel her heart on my chest, I’d have forgotten everything. But she pulled herself away. I could not comprehend such coyness.
I fell on a chair and laughed indifferently: ‘Mum, give your daughter-in-law a sweet, to make her feel better!’ It was my turn to mock.
I decided to take a trip to Pyrgos, to visit my sister. Perhaps my grumpiness at my wife’s behaviour would pass. Perhaps this attitude that I found so despair-inducing was just an innocent eccentricity. I was a naive man in love, and she much more of a woman than I had expected, and she was having fun toying with me. I came up with some excuse of urgent work, without any further explanations, and I left.
My wife’s face, when she said goodbye, gave nothing away: it was as though I were leaving for an hour or so. It hurt. I had to kick away the sadness and find my mental health, even if things were very different to what I had been expecting. I wasn’t born to feel pain. They say pain makes some people’s characters, and turns artists great. But I was not at all an artist; pain made me useless in life. Oh, I had to change things at home, no matter the cost!
Society in Pyrgos welcomed me in the usual manner. Even my old girlfriends. We didn’t kiss each other, of course, but we met and greeted each other with fondness. With the familiarity of an old family friend, I'd ask them with interest about their lives, to show that I had not abandoned the old gods, and above all, that I wasn’t very happy with the new ones. I wanted sympathy.
My cousin also lived in Pyrgos. I spent time with him and some other university friends. We looked for taverns to remind us of Plaka’s poetry, and we relived the old days when we turned even philosophy into a tool of pleasure, drunk on the beauty life had to offer us. They asked me to make a speech, because I was the only married man in the company, and I praised freedom of thought and heart.
Though my speech was lighthearted, my cousin suspected something. He pressed me to tell him about my life with my wife. I told him my complaints. He thought for a moment then laughed.
‘Poor you. You always were and always will be the spoilt child who wants everything for themselves. She only married you because she fell in love with you. As for your money, I don’t think it mattered to her at all. She could have married someone much richer, because she’s special. But I do think it’s strange she fell in love with you. Everyone thought she’d marry one of the sleepy men from her circle. But you, as you yourself admit, are uniquely able to find women’s soft spots.’
A week later I returned home without letting them know in advance. I arrived at 9pm. I entered silently. Mum was getting ready for bed, and my wife was studying. Before going in to see her, I talked for a while with mum. My wife had had a good time. She didn’t go out much, and did not have visitors. She studied a lot, and was somewhat distracted.
The information was satisfactory. Before I entered her study I waited outside it for a moment. I could see and admire her through the glass door. She had several books stacked on her desk — she was reading, skimming through dictionaries, making notes, thoughtful as when she was a student. Oh, how I disliked those books that took her away from me! Perhaps it was through them that she entered a different world, which I was struggling to reach. You’ll say, wasn’t I also studying? But that’s a different story entirely. My books didn’t absorb me in the same way.
When I came in, all cares were erased from her face, her eyes shone, she started laughing, asking me how our folks were, how was my time away… (She didn’t ask why I went in the first place, and I didn’t explain… No tenderness. As though someone were stopping us.)
Very well! That’s how she wanted it, that’s how I liked it too. My love had to be restricted to polite small talk, to smiles, as though she were a stranger I had to flirt with.
I had forgotten to try a foolproof way of determining how much she loved me (or rather, my love for her had prevented me from even considering it until then): jealousy! I put it to effect immediately, because, despite outward calm, inside I was tortured by all demons in hell. I started being exceptionally considerate to other women.
It was the time of the carnival. Spring was approaching and the weather was gorgeous. Our town was spick-and-span, with its straight roads and its two parks. Our social circle was small but refined — a farming aristocracy, more or less. Even the poorest lived comfortably from his fields, everyone had their children studying at university. Most ladies had their dressmakers in Athens, and our microscopic social milieu presented an austere conservative cleanliness, freshened by an air of cosmopolitanism represented by the younger generation. Every household tried to outdo the rest, to have the most visitors, to be and to appear to be better. That’s how I had learnt to live from a young age.
That year, carnival was a busy time, with balls and tea parties every afternoon and evening. The truth is my wife always stood out amongst the rest. Her dress, for all its simplicity, was elegant, and her refinement lifted up every party. Everyone was competing for her attention, but I strived to ignore her. There were times I didn’t dance with her once. Yet we would return home in a good mood — no complaints, no sulking as I had naively expected. When we went to bed, before sleeping, we gossiped about the balls we had attended. So many times my sides hurt from laughter: my wife had an incredible talent at seeing the ridiculous elements in everyone’s behaviour, and amplifying them. She could make a hilarious caricature out of anyone. When we got tired of laughing, she’d slip under the blankets, turn sides, and fall asleep instantly.
One evening in particular, an evening when I had been the most indifferent to her, when I had not danced with her at all, when I hadn’t even spent any time with her — and not only that, but I flirted with a pretty girl, but very dull — especially that evening her caricatures were funnier than ever. But she didn’t laugh at all, whereas I was in tears from laughter. I hugged her tight and kissed her — which I hadn’t dared to do in a while. I don’t know how but it seemed to me my kiss masked a sob.
‘Are you crying?’ I asked.
She was perfectly calm. She turned around and fell asleep.
I didn’t dare ask her again, because I started chocking on tears I wanted to hold back. I stayed awake until morning. My wife’s jokes revealed for the first time a deeper meaning. Her light-hearted caricatures unveiled our society’s poverty and vanity. Among all those ridiculed persons, hers was the only sharp eye that saw things clearly and did not give them more attention than they deserved. But if that’s how it was, if all these things were petty and unworthy, why didn’t she open her own world to me, a world I craved like the condemned craves heaven? Why didn’t she open her heart to me, to show me she didn’t belong to any man, or to any purpose, but to my love, the same way I belonged to her? Who was she, after all? Her face never showed tiredness, nor sadness, nor jealousy — there were no secrets to spot, to say, there! she’s human like me, she feels pain and pleasure! She spent most of her time shut in her study, among her books.
I bent over her face, to guess what was hidden in that head. In the light of dawn she looked like a pale lily, with her black hair spread over the pillow. At some point she opened her eyes, rubbed them with her firsts like a child, and looked at me with a happy half-smile; then she hugged my neck and shut her eyes again.
The agony filling my soul broke out in tears. I cried until morning, with my face touching hers. She couldn’t possibly be asleep, but she didn’t ask what was wrong with me. The next day she was pensive, and looked at me with affection — but still, nothing more. How could we ever become closer to one another?
Time went by, and my father reminded me of our old plans. I should start preparing for politics, and we should start building a block of flats for the whole family in Athens. My poor dad’s faith in my abilities was touching, but I had lost my own confidence. I said so bluntly: I wasn’t made for this kind of work. Let another of his sons fulfil his plans; after all, being lawyers, they were more suitable. I couldn’t lead my own household, how could I lead a county?
My elder brother was elected MP the following year, and the family plan started being executed. We built a house in Patisia and we all moved to Athens — all except the old folk, who stayed at the village.
In Athens, my wife was less mine than any time before. When we moved it, I suggested we share a study; in the village, we each had our own separate one. But there was no need for it; and it was her studying that took her away from me the most, so I wanted to minimise that.
She did not entertain any discussion on the matter. She couldn’t have anyone near her when she was studying; she wanted to be by herself. I got mad. I almost blurted out ‘why don’t we have separate bedrooms too, and take lovers, like the French, who are civilised,’ but I bit my tongue. Why give her the satisfaction that she was so essential to me? Maybe I did not have her love, but I could at least save my pride. I had to face reality, and accept my wife’s character as a fact, and to stop fighting for a closeness that was impossible. My wife had reconnected with her old philosophy groups, and rekindled her friendships. She asked me once — but without any warmth — whether I wanted to become involved with philosophy.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said with some indifference. ‘Philosophy and philosophers are two things I’ll never like.’ She smiled with satisfaction, pretended to not understand my challenge, and things ended like that.
I was working for a high school, eight hours per week, and I had plenty of time to study and make a name for myself. I had to stop fooling around. After three years of study, I was certain to become a lecturer at the maths department. I couldn’t shake the image of my father with his kind bearing, his snow-white beard and the equally white fustanella. ‘Father,’ I thought, ‘you asked me to honour your name. I have to do it, and I will do it.’
The effort lasted a month. I then threw it all away. I found my books desperately sad. How could I be ambitious, without a big love giving me wings? I couldn’t care for anything — all I was looking for was joy and love.
So I threw myself to an active social life. I’d tell my wife, also without warmth, ‘such and such is giving a ball and they’ve invited me; do you want to come?’ She always said yes, then found an excuse not to come. Other times I just told her, ‘tonight I’ll be late, I’m going out,’ and pretended to look forward to it. She seemed even more excited than me: she prepared my clothes, helped me dress, and looked me over before I went out, putting final touches on my outfit. Eventually I stopped even telling her where I was going.
I’d come home at two or four in the morning. I never found her asleep. From the street, I could the light in her study, and felt my heart skip. My sweetheart is waiting for me, I thought. I’d climb the stairs with my heart beating, ready to fall into her arms, ask for forgiveness, and tell her how much I loved her.
But before I even spoke, she’d give me her hand:
‘You have to congratulate me,’ she’d say. ‘I finished the entire book, and so quickly too’ and so on. She’d look at her watch. ‘Oh! It’s 5am already — not so impressive then. Come, take a shower, drink some milk, and go to bed!’
Every now and then, I gave a perfunctory apology for coming in so late without letting her know in advance — some friends from the club took my out unexpectedly, I didn’t mean to worry her. Her response was typical:
‘Worry? Not at all! I know you’re careful and nothing will happen to you. The police aren’t after you — what do I have to worry about?’ Once, she let something more slip: ‘as long as you’re well, it doesn’t matter…’ Oh good, as long as I’m well, I thought…
The more I saw my wife’s indifference to my behaviour, the worse I became. And though I started living this life to make a point, it slowly-slowly began to appeal to me. And the reason was my success. I was in much demand. I almost caused a scene one evening between a married couple. The poor gentleman, he wasn’t a jealous man; but his wife showed such interest in me that he lost his temper. On another occasion, an engaged woman sent me a note promising me she’d leave her fiancé — something I hadn’t asked for — and wanted to visit me at my house at a time my wife would be absent. I responded that my wife and I receive visitors together, and that I would be glad to introduce them. (How I laughed. Women who weren’t like my wife were so naive. A simple flirt sent their imaginations galloping…)
This life disgusted me, but also gave me a sense of superiority and self-confidence. My wife’s behaviour over the past year and a half risked causing a breakdown.
(You may be wondering what kind of face I have to make women fall in love with me. Nothing to write home about. I’m tall, dark-haired, with fluid movements. This last one is not my own description — girls have been telling me since I was a student. There’s also a debatable view that I have a somewhat nice mouth and a long, manly forehead. As for the rest, I’m normal and boring in appearance. My cousin, who likes to think himself wise and profound, says I owe my appeal to my movements. In the end, I half-believed him. It’s true I see men stumble on pavements, their arms hanging like superfluous things from their shoulders, and bodies moving inefficiently and sadly through space. For me, a street, a walk, a dance filled me with a feeling of bliss almost, because they gave me an opportunity to move. They never tired me. There were times I felt I wasn’t moving myself, but that it was the wind propelling my body rhythmically, making my moves elegant and harmonious. And when I happened to walk in lush countryside, filled with sun, I was taken over by an emotion that approached intoxication and ended up feeling like a symphony.)
One nice, sunny afternoon my two brothers suggested we ask our wives to go on a walk, because the three of us had to talk. As soon as we were alone, they started berating me for the life I was leading, saying I was exposing my family and neglecting my wife who deserved my attention.
The thing that saddened me the most about this intervention was the feeling that the issue I had with my wife was so unimportant that I couldn’t even discuss it with anyone without making them laugh, and so delicate that nothing could address it. Should I be tender with her, for her to laugh at my weakness — the way we laugh at a child? Or should I be harsh with her, and make her think me mean, which would cause me to lose her altogether?
How could I explain her indifference? It’s not like she was a cold person. She did not belong to that unlikable genus of people who do not care whether it’s raining or sunny, whether it’s peacetime or war. I did not have much proof — because she didn’t have serious discussions with me (she kept those to herself, in her study) — but I could guess she had a fiery soul, perhaps even more passionate than my own. But where did she find the strength to maintain such olympian calm? What ideal could support such magnificence of spirit? Was she really, after all, a marxist, and my name and my house were just a means to support the ‘cause’? That’s the only hypothesis that could explain her behaviour, but it couldn’t be right, because I didn’t see her doing anything to advance the cause.
These thoughts penetrated my brain and my heart when, after my discussion with my brothers, I headed to Zappeion to meet the women. I looked around to find them, when I met someone I knew from my wife’s circle.
‘Are you looking for your wife? he said. ‘She just left with your sisters-in-law. They’re going to the Parnassos exhibition. Oh, I congratulate you on her book. Everyone who’s read it is raving about it.’
‘But the author herself says it’s just an insignificant effort,’ I replied.
We sat at a table and continued talking. I learnt that my wife I had published a book, The metaphysical foundations of Ethics, under her pen name, and that she was well-known for her publications in various journals — well known to the public, because I, her husband, knew nothing of all this.
My interlocutor showed such enthusiasm for my wife and her book that I would gladly have punched him. ‘It’s not just a serious study that examines the issue from all sides, and makes ingenuous arguments,’ he was saying. ‘It’s also that it’s written with such passion, such exuberance, that you’d think it’s a poem — it doesn’t have the dryness of an academic essay. Everything she writes clearly stems from deep feelings that found an intellectual expression. You see, it’s so different from the usual texts of its kind!’
Yes, I saw all that, and more. I finally understood my wife a little better. But what I did not understand at all is why did she need me? Why did she marry me, and why did she stay with me!
My worries were calmed — but my resolution remained: my life needed a big showdown and a catharsis… It was rumoured that Greece would enter the War. I was looking forward to it. My wife would learn that I wasn’t only good for flirting and dancing — I’d be the first to sign up, and I would not go with a view to returning. I had to do something big, for papers to write about, so she’d learn I could be a hero. The army wouldn’t need many officers with my zeal to win. I wanted to respond to her detachment and irony with my desire for death. I thought that only this way I could keep my dignity.
And yet, how things turn out some times! A few months later, my wife gave birth to a little boy. We spent our nights looking at him in his little cot, and lost track of time caressing him.
My wife’s face lost its ironic expression. When a person’s soul is full of the awe of creation, it cannot mock; and my wife was now a creator. She talked to me so much about our child, about its future, about how we would shape his little soul in our hands, and make it beautiful. And so I was slowly admitted into her world, from a path I had not imagined.
I left the high-society life and spent my time with my wife; and she no longer denied me the connection I craved. Our bodies and souls had really become one now, in the crucible of creation, and I felt for the first time that I was a whole being.
I had lost two years of work and love — the greatest losses. But fortunately we were both young for the fight and for love.
If you enjoyed this, you might also like my previous translations:
Highly unusual to see a child presented as a stabilizing element in a marriage.