Doctor Glas

by Hjalmar Söderberg

  *

  I went there in the afternoon. As agreed, she’d warned him in advance. I spoke to him privately. His face was even more gray than usual.

  “Well,” he said, “my wife has already explained the situation to me. I can’t begin to say how sorry I am for her sake. We had so hoped and prayed to have a baby. But I won’t agree to separate bedrooms—that’s out of the question. It’s so unusual in our circle that it would give rise to gossip. And I’m an old man, anyway.”

  He gave a hollow cough.

  “Well,” I said, “of course I don’t doubt that you value your wife’s health above all other concerns. Besides, it’s quite likely we’ll soon get her well again.”

  “I pray to God for her recovery,” he replied. “But how long do you think it might take, doctor?”

  “That’s hard to say, but six months of complete abstinence will certainly be necessary. Then we’ll just have to see . . .”

  He has a couple of liver spots on his face which now grew darker and more visible against his ashen complexion, and his eyes seemed to shrivel up.

  *

  He’s been married once before; too bad the first wife died! In his study there’s a large charcoal sketch of her: a common, bony, sensuous-yet-pious serving-girl type, not too different from the worthy Katarina von Bora.

  No doubt she suited him. Too bad she died!

  JUNE 21

  WHO’S THE LUCKY MAN? I’ve been asking myself the question since the day before yesterday.

  How strange that I should find out so soon and that it should turn out to be someone I know, if only in passing. It’s Klas Recke.

  Yes indeed, he’s a far cry from Pastor Gregorius.

  I just ran into them on my after-dinner walk. I was wandering at random down the streets in the warm, rosy twilight, thinking about her, the young woman. I think about her often. I turned off on an empty side street—and there all of a sudden I saw them approaching. They had just stepped out of a building. I quickly pulled out my handkerchief and blew my nose to hide my face. This was quite unnecessary; he scarcely knows who I am, and she, blinded by happiness, didn’t see me at all.

  JUNE 22

  I SIT READING the page I wrote last night, reading it over and over again, and I ask myself: So, old friend, you’ve become a pimp?

  Nonsense. I’ve saved her from something terrible. I felt it had to be done.

  Beyond that, what she does with herself is her own business.

  JUNE 23

  MIDSUMMER EVE, bright, blue night. I remember you from my childhood and youth as the lightest, most carefree, weightless night of the year. Why are you so oppressive and foreboding now?

  I’m sitting at the window thinking over my life, trying to come to grips with why it followed such a different path from everyone else’s, so far off the beaten track.

  Let me think.

  Just now as I crossed through the churchyard on my way home I once again witnessed one of those scenes that guardians of morality who write letters to the newspaper always call “beyond description.” Clearly an instinct that makes these poor people flout public outrage in a churchyard must be overwhelmingly powerful. It drives frivolous men to all sorts of insane behavior and makes honest, sensible men submit to great deprivation and hardship. And it drives women to overcome the sense of modesty that their upbringing, generation after generation, has been designed to promote and reinforce, to endure terrible physical suffering, and often to plunge headfirst into the deepest misery.

  Only I remain untouched by it. How is this possible?

  My senses awakened late, at a time when my strength of will was already that of a man. I was very ambitious as a child. I learned to control myself early, to distinguish between my innermost, constant will and a momentary impulse, a fleeting desire, to listen to the one voice and disregard the other. Since then I’ve noticed that this ability is quite uncommon, perhaps more uncommon than talent or genius, and for that reason it sometimes seems to me that I should have become something unusual and great. After all, I was a brilliant student: finished secondary school at fifteen, earned my medical degree by twenty-three. But then I stopped. No specialized training, no doctorate. People were willing to lend me the money, however much I needed, but I was tired. I felt no desire to specialize, and I wanted to earn my own living. My schoolboy ambition for high grades, once satisfied, faded away, and oddly enough no adult ambition took its place. I think it was because by then I had started to think. I hadn’t had time before.

  But all this time my instinctive drives were half asleep, aroused enough to awaken vague dreams and desires, like those of a young girl, but not powerful and tempting like other young men’s. And though I did occasionally lie awake at night with hot fantasies, it was still unthinkable to me that I would be able to find satisfaction with the women my friends visited, women they sometimes pointed out to me on the street, who seemed repulsive. No doubt the fact that my imagination evolved entirely on its own, completely independent from the influence of others, also played a role. I was always so much younger than my peers that at first I didn’t understand a thing when they talked about these matters, and since I didn’t understand, I grew accustomed to not listening. So I remained “pure.” I didn’t even practice the sins of youth—I barely knew they existed. I had no religious faith to hold me back, but I had my dreams of love, such beautiful dreams, and I was convinced that one day they would be reality. I didn’t want to sully my student honors, sell my birthright for a pittance.

  My dreams of love—once it seemed to me that they were so close, so close to coming true. Midsummer Eve, strange, pale night, you always awaken that memory, the memory that is really the only one I have, the only one that remains when everything else recedes, turns to dust, and disappears. And yet what happened was so insignificant. I was out at my uncle’s country place for the Midsummer weekend. There were young people and dancing and games. In the crowd of young people was a girl I’d met a few times at family gatherings. I hadn’t thought much about her before, but as I looked at her now a friend’s remark at a party suddenly came to mind: that girl certainly has an eye for you—she’s been sitting there watching you all evening. I remembered this now, and though I didn’t really believe it, it did make me look at her more than I might have otherwise, and I noticed that she sometimes looked at me, too. She may not have been prettier than many others, but she was in the full bloom of her twenty years and she was wearing a thin white blouse over her young breasts. We danced together a few times around the Maypole. As midnight approached we all climbed up a hill to admire the view and light a Midsummer bonfire, and the plan was to stay there until sunrise. The way up was through the woods between tall, straight pines; we walked in couples, and I walked with her. When she tripped on a tree root in the dim forest light I reached out my hand; a tremor of happiness went through me when I felt her soft, warm, firm little hand in mine, and I kept hold of it even when the path became straight and smooth. What did we talk about? I don’t know. Not a word remains in my memory, I only recall that it was as if there was a hidden current of quiet, resolute devotion in her voice and in every word she spoke, as if walking in the woods with me, hand in hand, was something she’d long been dreaming about and hoping for. We reached the top; other young people were already there and had lit the bonfire, and we settled down in scattered groups or two by two. From other heights and hilltops other fires flared up. Above us the sky was huge and light and blue, below the icy inlets and straits and the wide bay were shiny and deep. I was still holding her hand, and I think I even caressed it softly. I looked at her shyly and saw that her complexion was glowing in the pale night and her eyes were full of tears, but she wasn’t crying; her breathing was calm and even. We sat quietly, but inside me a song arose, an old folk song that came to me from nowhere in particular:

  A fire burns, it burns so bright, its flames like a thousand suns,

  Shall I now step into the fire and dance with my dearest one?


  We sat that way a long time. Some of the others got up and left for home, and I heard someone say, “There are big clouds in the east—we won’t see any sunrise.” The group on the hilltop dwindled until finally we were alone. I kept on looking at her and she met my gaze steadily. Then I took her face between my hands and kissed her, a light, innocent kiss. At that moment someone called her; she gave a start, freed herself and ran off, ran on light feet down through the forest.

  When I caught up with her she was already with the others; I could only press her hand in silence, and she pressed mine back. Down in the meadow people were still dancing around the Maypole, serving maids and farm hands and young people from well-to-do homes all mixing with each other, as is the custom on this one night of the year. I led her into the dance again, and a wild, dizzy dance it was; it was already full daylight, but the bewitchment of the Midsummer night was still in the air. The whole earth danced under us and the other couples whirled past, first above us, then below; everything went up and down and spun around. Then finally we pulled ourselves out of the vortex of the dance. We didn’t dare look at each other but stole away together, without a word, behind a lilac hedge. There I kissed her again. But now it was different—her head rested leaning back on my arm, she closed her eyes, and her mouth came alive as I kissed her. I pressed my hand against her breast and I felt her hand over mine. Perhaps she meant to ward me off, to push my hand away, but in fact she merely pressed it harder against her breast. All the while her face was growing radiant, first faintly, then more strongly, and finally like a violent flame. She opened her eyes but had to close them again, blinded, and when finally our long kiss was over, we stood cheek to cheek, dazed, and stared directly into the sun, which had broken through the patches of clouds in the east.

  I never saw her again. This was ten years ago, ten years ago tonight, and even today I feel crazed and sick when I think about it.

  We made no plans to meet the next day; it didn’t occur to us. Her parents lived nearby, and we took it for granted that we would meet and be together the next day, every day, the rest of our lives. But the next day was rainy; it went by without my seeing her, and that evening I had to go into town. A few days later I read in the newspaper that she was dead. Drowned while swimming, she and another young girl. —Yes, ten years have passed since then.

  At first I was crushed. But deep inside, I must be strong. I kept on working and passed my exam that autumn. But I suffered, too. Every night I saw her before me, constantly. I could see her white body lying in the slime and seaweed, bobbing up and down in the waves. Her eyes were wide open, and so was the mouth I had kissed. Then along came people in a boat. They had a grapnel with a hook that fastened in her breast, in the same young girlish breast my hand had just caressed.

  After this it was a long time before I once again noticed I was a man and that there were women in the world. But now I was hardened. Now that I had felt a spark of the great flame I was less inclined than ever to make do with the dregs. Others may be less particular about this; that’s their business, and I’m not sure the issue really matters very much. But I felt it mattered to me. And it would certainly be naive to think that a man’s will couldn’t control these insignificant urges, if only the will is there. Dear old Martin Luther, worthy spiritual ancestor of Pastor Gregorius, what a sinner in the flesh you must have been to have uttered so much nonsense when you got onto that topic! But at least you were more honest than your successors, and for that you should be praised.

  And so the years went, and life passed me by. I saw many women who awakened my longing again, but those particular women never noticed me—for them it was as if I didn’t exist. Why was that? I think I understand now. A woman in love has a special enchantment about her walk, her complexion, her entire being that captivates me. It was always these women who aroused my desire. But since they were already in love with other men they were unable to see me. Others saw me instead; after all, I was a young physician establishing a good practice, and consequently I was considered an excellent match and attracted a certain amount of attention. But it was always a wasted effort.

  Yes, the years went, and life passed me by. I practice my profession. People come to me with all kinds of illnesses, and I cure them as best I can. Some get well, others die, most of them drag on with their aches and pains. I work no miracles; occasionally someone I haven’t been able to help has turned to a lay healer or a notorious charlatan and recovered. But I think I’m generally regarded as a careful and conscientious physician. Soon, no doubt, I’ll be the typical family doctor, a fellow with great experience and a calm, reassuring gaze. People might have less confidence in me if they knew how poorly I slept.

  Midsummer Eve, bright, blue night, once you were so airy, light, and carefree. Why do you weigh on me like anguish now?

  JUNE 28

  THIS EVENING when I went past the Grand Hotel on my after-dinner walk Klas Recke was sitting there at a table by the sidewalk, alone with his whisky. I took a few more steps, then turned around and settled down at a nearby table to observe him. He didn’t see me, or didn’t want to. Naturally she has told him about her visit to me and the happy outcome—presumably he’s grateful for the latter, but it may make him slightly uncomfortable to know that someone else is in on their secret. He sat there motionless, looking out across the Stream, smoking a very long, thin cigar.

  A newsboy came by, and I bought an Evening News to hide behind while peering at him over the edge. And once again the thought struck me, just as it did when I first saw him many years ago: why does that man have precisely the face I should have had? That’s just what I would look like if I could remake myself. Back then I suffered bitterly because I was ugly as sin. Now I don’t care.

  I’ve scarcely seen a more handsome man. Cold, light-gray eyes, but set so they look deep and dreamy. Absolutely straight, horizontal eyebrows that extend toward his temples, a marble-white forehead, thick, dark hair. But in the lower half of his face only the shape of the mouth is beautiful; otherwise there are minor flaws, an uneven nose, a swarthy, singed complexion—in other words, just what’s needed to save him from the sort of perfection that mostly arouses ridicule.

  What does the man look like inside? I know virtually nothing about that. All I know is that he’s said to have a good head on his shoulders with regard to his career, and it seems to me I’ve seen him more often in the company of his superiors in the department where he works than with companions his own age.

  A hundred thoughts went through my head as I watched him sitting there motionless, gazing out into the distance—he didn’t touch his glass, and the cigar nearly went out. A hundred old dreams and fantasies reawakened when I thought about his life and compared it with my own. I’ve often said to myself that desire is the most blissful feeling in the world, the only thing that can brighten up this miserable life, but its satisfaction can’t be much to boast about, judging by all these successful, well-off men who deny themselves nothing along those lines but whom I’ve never envied in the slightest. When I see a man like him, however, I feel bitter envy deep inside. The problem that poisoned my youth and still weighs me down well into adulthood solved itself for him. I suppose that’s true for most people, but their solution arouses disgust, not envy—otherwise I would have resolved the problem long ago as well. But women’s love has always come to him as a God-given right; he has never been forced to choose between starvation and rancid meat. Nor do I think he’s ever taken time to think very much; he has never had the leisure to let the poison of reflection drip into his wine. He’s happy, and I envy him.

  And with a shiver I also thought about her, Helga Gregorius, I saw her shining eyes through the twilight. Yes, the two of them belong together—it’s natural selection. Gregorius—why should she drag that name and that man with her through life? It’s pointless.

  It began to grow dark; a red evening glow settled over the soot-stained façade of the Royal Palace. People walked past on the sidewalk. I listened to th
eir voices: there were thin Yankees with their careless slang, small, fat Jewish shopkeepers with their nasal tones, and ordinary middle-class people with contented Saturday-evening cadences. Occasionally someone nodded to me and I nodded back, or somebody tipped a hat and I tipped mine. Some friends sat down at the next table; it was Martin Birck and Markel and a third man I’ve met once or twice but whose name I’ve forgotten, or perhaps never known—he’s very bald and our previous encounters had been indoors, so I didn’t recognize him until he raised his hat to greet me. Recke nodded to Markel, whom he knows, and shortly thereafter got up to leave. When he passed my table he suddenly seemed to recognize me and gave a scrupulously polite, though somewhat distant greeting. We were on a first name basis as students at Uppsala, but he’s forgotten that.

  As soon as he was out of earshot the group at the next table started talking about him, and I heard the bald man turn to Markel and ask, “Ah, so you know that Recke fellow—he’s supposed to have a bright future ahead of him. Is he as ambitious as they say?”

  Markel: “Well, ambitious . . . If I were to call him ambitious it would be for the sake of our close friendship. Otherwise it would probably be more accurate to say that he wants to get ahead. Ambition is quite unusual. We’re used to saying that someone is ambitious if he wants to be a government minister. A minister—what’s that? The income of a small businessman and barely enough power to be able to help his own relatives, let alone push through his ideas, should he happen to have any. Which doesn’t stop me from wanting to be a minister myself, of course—it’s a more advantageous position than my current one—but this shouldn’t be called ambition. It’s something quite different. Back when I was ambitious I came up with a plan, a very carefully thought-out one, incidentally, to conquer the entire world and arrange things so that everything was as it should be, and finally, when it was so perfect that it almost began to be dull, then I’d help myself to as much money as I wanted and sneak off, disappear in an enormous city and sit in the corner of a café drinking absinthe, rejoicing about how badly everything was going since I’d withdrawn from the fray . . . But I like Klas Recke anyway, because he’s very handsome, and because he has an unusual talent for arranging things comfortably and pleasantly for himself in this vale of tears.” Ah, Markel, he’s always the same. He’s a political columnist in a big newspaper these days; often, in a state of high dudgeon, he writes articles that are intended to be taken seriously and sometimes even deserve to be. Somewhat unshaven and unkempt in the morning, but always elegant in the evening and with a humor that lights up when the street lamps go on. Next to him sat Birck with an absent gaze, wearing a large raincoat even in this heat. He wrapped it around himself as if he were freezing.