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diff --git a/old/67406-h/67406-h.htm b/old/67406-h/67406-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 6ba3d4d..0000000 --- a/old/67406-h/67406-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18494 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Husband's Story, by David Graham Phillips—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -p { - margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; -} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both; -} - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -.pagenum { - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} - - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph2 {text-align: center; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: bold;} -.ph3 {text-align: center; font-size: x-large; font-weight: bold;} - -div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; page-break-after: always;} -div.titlepage p {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 2em;} - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.large {font-size: 125%;} - -.u {text-decoration: underline;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%; -} - -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - margin-left: 17.5%; - margin-right: 17.5%; - padding: 1em; - margin-bottom: 1em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Husband’s Story, by David Graham Phillips</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Husband’s Story</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: David Graham Phillips</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 14, 2022 [eBook #67406]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUSBAND’S STORY ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/cover.jpg" width="40%" alt="" /></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<h1><i>The</i><br /> -HUSBAND’S STORY</h1> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<p class="ph2">The<br /> -Husband’s Story<br /> - -<small>A NOVEL</small></p> - -<p>BY<br /> -<span class="large">DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS</span><br /> -<br /> -AUTHOR OF<br /> -THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF<br /> -JOSHUA CRAIG, OLD WIVES FOR NEW<br /> -THE SECOND GENERATION, ETC.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/i_logo.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p>NEW YORK<br /> -<span class="large">GROSSET & DUNLAP</span><br /> -PUBLISHERS</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1910, by</span><br /> -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY<br /> -<br /> -<i>Published September, 1910</i><br /> -<br /> -Printed in the United States of America<br /> -</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[1]</span> -<p class="ph2">THE HUSBAND’S STORY</p> - -<h2 class="nobreak">WHY</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Several</span> years ago circumstances thrust me into a -position in which it became possible for the friend who -figures in these pages as Godfrey Loring to do me a -favor. He, being both wise and kindly, never misses a -good chance to put another under obligations. He did -me the favor. I gratefully, if reluctantly, acquiesced. -Now, after many days, he collects. When you shall have -read what follows, you may utterly reject my extenuating -plea that any and every point of view upon life -is worthy of attention, even though it serve only to -confirm us in our previous ideas and beliefs. You may -say that I should have repudiated my debt, should have -refused to edit and publish the manuscript he confided -to me. You may say that the general racial obligation -to mankind—and to womankind—takes precedence over -a private and personal obligation. Unfortunately I -happen to be not of the philanthropic temperament. -My sense of the personal is strong; my sense of the -general weak—that is to say, weak in comparison. If -“Loring” had been within reach, I think I should have -gone to him and pleaded for release. But as luck will -have it, he is off yachting, to peep about in the remote<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[2]</span> -inlets and islets of Australasia and the South Seas for -several years.</p> - -<p>To aggravate my situation, in the letter accompanying -the manuscript, after several pages of the discriminating -praise most dear to a writer’s heart, he did me -the supreme honor of saying that in his work he had -“striven to copy as closely as might be your style and -your methods—to help me to the hearing I want and -to lighten your labors as editor.” I assure him and the -public that in any event I should have done little editing -of his curious production beyond such as a proofreader -might have found necessary. As it is, I have -done practically no editing at all. In form and in substance, -from title to finis, the work is his. I am merely -its sponsor—and in circumstances that would forbid me -were I disposed to qualify my sponsorship with even -so mild a disclaimer as reluctance.</p> - -<p>Have I said more than a loyal friend should? If so, -on the other hand, have I not done all that a loyal friend -could?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">I</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I am</span> tempted to begin with our arrival in Fifth Avenue, -New York City, in the pomp and circumstance befitting -that region of regal splendor. I should at once -catch the attention of the women; and my literary -friends tell me that to make any headway with a story -in America it is necessary to catch the women, because -the men either do not read books at all or read -only what they hear the women talking about. And I -know well—none knows better—that our women of the -book-buying class, and probably of all classes, love to -amuse their useless idleness with books that help them -to dream of wasting large sums of money upon luxuries -and extravagances, upon entertaining grand people in -grand houses and being entertained by them. They tell -me, and I believe it, that our women abhor stories of -middle-class life, abhor truth-telling stories of any kind, -like only what assures them that the promptings of their -own vanities and sentimental shams are true.</p> - -<p>But patience, gentle reader, you with the foolish, -chimera-haunted brain, with the silly ideas of life, with -the ignorance of human nature including your own self, -with the love of sloppy and tawdry clap trap. Patience, -gentle reader. While I shall begin humbly in the -social scale, I shall not linger there long. I shall pass<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span> -on to the surroundings of grandeur that entrance your -snobbish soul. You will soon smell only fine perfumes, -only the aromas of food cooked by expensive chefs. -You will sit in drawing-rooms, lie in bedrooms as magnificent -as the architects and decorators and other purveyors -to the very rich have been able to concoct. You -will be tasting the fine savors of fashionable names and -titles recorded in Burke’s and the “Almanach de -Gotha.” Patience, gentle reader, with your box of caramels -and your hair in curl papers and your household -work undone—patience! A feast awaits you.</p> - -<p>There has been much in the papers these last few -years about the splendid families we—my wife and I—came -of. Some time ago one of the English dukes—a -nice chap with nothing to do and a quaint sense of -humor—assembled on his estate for a sort of holiday -and picnic all the members of his ancient and proud -family who could be got together by several months of -diligent search. It was a strange and awful throng that -covered the lawns before the ducal castle on the appointed -day. There was a handful of fairly presentable, -more or less prosperous persons. But the most of the -duke’s cousins, near and remote, were tramps, bartenders, -jail birds, women of the town, field hands male and -female, sewer cleaners, chimney sweeps, needlewomen, -curates, small shopkeepers, and others of the species -that are as a stench unto delicate, aristocratic nostrils. -The duke was delighted with his picnic, pronounced it -a huge success. But then His Grace had a sense of -humor and was not an American aristocrat.</p> - -<p>All this by way of preparation for the admission<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span> -that the branch of the Loring family from which I come -and the branch of the Wheatlands family to which the -girl I married belongs were far from magnificent, were -no more imposing then, well, than the families of any -of our American aristocrats. Like theirs, our genealogical -tree, most imposingly printed and bound and -proudly exhibited on a special stand in the library of -our New York palace—that genealogical tree, for all -its air of honesty, for all its documentary proofs, worm-eaten -and age-stained, was like an artificial palm bedded -in artificial moss. The truth is, aristocracy does not -thrive in America, but only the pretense of it, and that -must be kept alive by constant renewals. Both here and -abroad I am constantly running across traces of illegitimacy, -substitution, and other forms of genealogical flim-flam. -But let that pass. Whoever is or is not aristocratic, -certainly Godfrey Loring and Edna Wheatlands -are not—or, rather, <i>were</i> not.</p> - -<p>My father kept a dejected little grocery in Passaic, -N. J. He did not become a “retired merchant and capitalist” -until I was able to retire and capitalize him. -Edna’s father was— No, you guess wrong. Not a -butcher, but—an undertaker!... Whew! I am glad -to have these shameful secrets “off the chest,” as they -say in the Bowery. He—this Wheatlands, undertaker -to the poor and near-poor of the then village of Passaic—was -a tall, thin man, with snow-white hair and a -smooth, gaunt, gloomy face and the best funeral air I -have ever seen. Edna has long since forgotten him; she -has an admirable ability absolutely to forget anything -she may for whatever reason deem it inconvenient to remember.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span> -What an aid to conscience is such a quality! -But I have not forgotten old Weeping Willy Wheatlands, -and I shall not forget him. It was he who loaned -me my first capital, the one that— But I must not -anticipate.</p> - -<p>In those days Passaic was a lowly and a dreary village. -Its best was cheap enough; its poorest was -wretchedly squalid. The “seat” of the Lorings and -the “seat” of the Wheatlands stood side by side on the -mosquito beset banks of the river—two dingy frame cottages, -a story and a half in height, two rooms deep. -We Lorings had no money, for my father was an honest, -innocent soul with a taste for talking what he thought -was politics, though in fact he knew no more of the realities -of politics, the game of pull Dick pull Devil for -licenses to fleece a “free, proud and intelligent people”—he -knew no more of that reality than—than the next -honest soul you may hear driveling on that same subject. -We had no money, but “Weeping Willie” had -plenty—and saved it, blessings on him! I hate to -think where I should be now, if he hadn’t hoarded! So, -while our straightened way of living was compulsory, -that of the Wheatlands was not. But this is unimportant; -the main point is both families lived in the same -humble way.</p> - -<p>If I thought “gentle reader” had patience and real -imagination—and, yes, the real poetic instinct—I should -give her an inventory of the furniture of those two cottages, -and of the meager and patched draperies of the -two Monday wash lines, as my mother and Edna’s -mother—and Edna, too, when she grew big enough—decorated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span> -them, the while shrieking gossip back and -forth across the low and battered board fence. But I -shall not linger. It is as well. Those memories make -me sad—put a choke in my throat and a mist before my -eyes. Why? If you can’t guess, I could not in spoiling -ten reams of paper explain it to you. One detail only, -and I shall hasten on. Both families lived humbly, but -we not quite so humbly as the Wheatlands family, because -my mother was a woman of some neatness and energy -while Ma Wheatlands was at or below the do-easy, -slattern human average. <i>We</i> had our regular Saturday -bath—in the wash tub. <i>We</i> did not ever eat off the -stove. And while we were patched we were rarely -ragged.</p> - -<p>In those days—even in those days—Edna was a -“scrapper.” They call it an “energetic and resolute -personality” now; it was called “scrappy” then, and -scrappy it was. When I would be chopping wood or -lugging in coal, so occupied that I did not dare pause, -she would sit on the fence in her faded blue-dotted calico, -and how she would give it to me! She knew how to say -the thing that made me wild with the rage a child is -ashamed to show. Yes, she loved to tease me, perhaps—really, -I hope—because she knew I, in the bottom -of my heart, loved to be teased by her, to be noticed in -any way. And mighty pretty she looked then, with her -mop of yellowish brown hair and her big golden brown -eyes and her little face, whose every feature was tilted -to the angle that gives precisely the most fascinating -expression of pretty pertness, of precocious intelligence, -or of devil-may-care audacity. She has always been a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span> -pretty woman, has Edna, and always will be, even in -old age, I fancy. Her beauty, like her health, like that -strong, supple body of hers, was built to last. What -is the matter with the generations coming forward now? -Why do they bloom only to wither? What has sapped -their endurance? Are they brought up too soft? Is it -the food? Is it the worn-out parents? Why am I, at -forty, younger in looks and in strength and in taste for -life than the youths of thirty? Why is Edna, not five -years my junior, more attractive physically than girls -of twenty-five or younger?</p> - -<p>But she was only eight or nine at the time of which -I am writing. And she was fond of me then—really -fond of me, though she denied it furiously when the -other children taunted, and though she was always jeering -at me, calling me awkward and homely. I don’t -think I was notably either the one or the other, but for -her to say so tended to throw the teasers off the track -and also kept me in humble subjection. I knew she -cared, because when we played kissing games she would -never call me out, would call out every other boy, but -if I called any other girl she would sulk and treat me -as badly as she knew how. Also, while she had nothing -but taunts and sarcasms for me she was always to be -found in the Wheatlands’ back yard near the fence or -on it whenever I was doing chores in our back yard.</p> - -<p>After two years in the High School I went to work -in the railway office as a sort of assistant freight clerk. -She kept on at school, went through the High School, -graduated in a white dress with blue ribbons, and then -sat down to wait for a husband. Her father and mother<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span> -were sensible people. Heaven knows they had led a -hard enough life to have good sense driven into them. -But the tradition—the lady-tradition—was too strong -for them. They were not ashamed to work, themselves. -They would have been both ashamed and angry had it -been suggested to them that their two boys should become -idlers. But they never thought of putting their -daughter to work at anything. After she graduated -and became a young lady, she was not compelled—would -hardly have been permitted—to do housework or sewing. -You have seen the potted flower in the miserable -tenement window—the representative of the life that -neither toils nor spins, but simply exists in idle beauty. -That potted bloom concentrates all the dreams, all the -romantic and poetic fancies of the tenement family. I -suppose Edna was some such treasured exotic possession -to those toil-twisted old parents of hers. They wanted -a flower in the house.</p> - -<p>Well, they had it. She certainly was a lovely girl, -far too lovely to be spoiled by work. And if ever there -was a scratch or a stain on those beautiful white hands of -hers, it assuredly was not made by toil. She took music -lessons— Music lessons! How much of the ridiculous, -pathetic gropings after culture is packed into those two -words. Beyond question, everyone ought to know something -about music; we should all know something about -everything, especially about the things that peculiarly -stand for civilization—science and art, literature and -the drama. But how foolishly we are set at it! Instead -of learning to understand and to appreciate music, we -are taught to “beat the box” in a feeble, clumsy fashion,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span> -or to screech or whine when we have no voice worth -the price of a single lesson. Edna took I don’t know how -many lessons a week for I don’t know how many years. -She learned nothing about music. She merely learned to -strum on the piano. But, after all, the lessons attained -their real object. They made Edna’s parents and Edna -herself and all the neighbors feel that she was indeed -a lady. She could not sew. She could not cook. She -hadn’t any knowledge worth mention of any practical -thing—therefore, had no knowledge at all; for, unless -knowledge is firmly based upon and in the practical, it -is not knowledge but that worst form of ignorance, misinformation. -She didn’t know a thing that would help -her as woman, wife, or mother. But she could play the -piano!</p> - -<p>Some day some one will write something true on the -subject of education. You remember the story of the -girl from Lapland who applied for a place as servant -in New York, and when they asked her what she could -do, she said, “I can milk the reindeer.”</p> - -<p>I never hear the word education that I don’t think -of that girl. One half of the time spent at school, to -estimate moderately, and nine tenths of the time spent -in college class rooms is given to things about as valuable -to a citizen of this world as the Lap girl’s “education” -to a New York domestic. If anyone tells you -that those valueless things are culture, tell him that only -an ignorance still becalmed in the dense mediæval fog -would talk such twaddle; tell him that science has taught -us what common sense has always shown, that there is no -beauty divorced from use, that beauty is simply the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span> -perfect adaptation of the thing to be used to the purpose -for which it is to be used. I am a business man, -not a smug, shallow-pated failure teaching in an antiquated -college. I abhor the word culture, as I abhor -the word gentleman or the word lady, because of the -company into which it has fallen. So, while I eagerly -disclaim any taint of “culture,” I insist that I know -what I’m talking about when I talk of education. And -if I had not been too good-natured, my girl— But I -must keep to the story. “Gentle reader” wants a -story; he—or she—does not want to try to think.</p> - -<p>It was pleasant to my ignorant ears to hear Edna -playing sonatas and classical barcaroles and dead -marches and all manner of loud and difficult pieces. -Such sounds, issuing from the humble—and not too -clean—Wheatlands house gave it an atmosphere of -aristocracy, put tone into the whole neighborhood, elevated -the Wheatlands family like a paper collar on the -calico shirt of a farm hand. If we look at ourselves -rightly, we poor smattering seekers after a little showy -knowledge of one kind or another—a dibble of French, -a dabble of Latin or Greek, a sputter of woozy so-called -philosophy—how like the paper-collared farm hand we -are, how like the Hottentot chief with a plug hat atop -his naked brown body.</p> - -<p>But Edna pleased me, fully as much as she pleased -herself, and that is saying a great deal. I wouldn’t -have had her changed in the smallest particular. I was -even glad she could get rid of her freckles—fascinating -little beauty spots sprinkled upon her tip-tilted little -nose!</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>She was not so fond of me in those days. I had a -rival. I am leaning back and laughing as I think of -him. Charley Putney! He was clerk in a largish dry -goods store. He is still a clerk there, I believe, and no -doubt is still the same cheaply scented, heavily pomatumed -clerkly swell he was in the days when I feared -and hated him. The store used to close at six o’clock. -About seven of summer evenings Charley would issue -forth from his home to set the hearts of the girls to fluttering. -They were all out, waiting. Down the street -he would come with his hat set a little back to show -the beautiful shine and part and roach of his hair. The -air would become delicious (!) with bergamot, occasionally -varied by German cologne or lemon verbena. -What a jaunty, gay tie! What an elegant suit! And -he wore a big seal ring, reputed to be real gold—and -such lively socks! Down the street came Charley, all -the girls palpitant. At which stoop or front gate -would he stop?</p> - -<p>Often—only too often—it was at the front gate -next ours. How I hated him!</p> - -<p>And the cap of the joke is that Edna nearly married -him. In this land where the social stairs are crowded -like Jacob’s Ladder with throngs ascending and descending, -what a history it would make if the grown men and -women of any generation should tell whom they <i>almost</i> -married!</p> - -<p>Yes, Edna came very near to marrying him. She -was a lady. She did not know exactly what that meant. -The high-life novels she read left her hazy on the subject, -because to understand any given thing we must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span> -have knowledge that enables us to connect it with the -things we already know. A snowball would be an unfathomable -mystery to a savage living in an equatorial -plain. A matter of politics or finance or sociology or -real art, real literature, real philosophy, seems dull and -meaningless to a woman or to the average mutton-brained -man. But if you span the gap between knowledge -of any subject and a woman’s or a man’s ignorance -of that subject with however slender threads of connecting -knowledge, she or he can at once bridge it and -begin to reap the new fields. Edna could not find any -thread whatever for the gap between herself and that -fairy land of high life the novels told her about. In -those days there was no high life in Passaic. I suppose -there is now—or, at least, Passaic thinks there is—and -in purely imaginary matters the delusion of possession -is equal to, even better than, possession itself. -So, with no high life to use as a measure, with only the -instinct that her white smooth hands and her dresses -modeled on the latest Paris fashions as illustrated in the -monthly “Lady Book,” and her music lessons, her taste -for what she then regarded as literature—with only her -instinct that all these hallmarks must stamp her twenty-four -carat lady, she had to look about her for a matching -gentleman. And there was Charley, the one person -within vision who suggested the superb heroes of the -high-life novels. I will say to the credit of her good -taste that she had her doubts about Charley. Indeed, -if his sweet smell and his smooth love-making—Charley -excelled as a love-maker, being the born ladies’ man—if -the man, or, rather, the boy, himself had not won her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span> -heart, she would soon have tired of him and would have -suspected his genuineness as a truly gentleman. But -she fell in love with him.</p> - -<p>There was a long time during which I thought the -reason she returned to me—or, rather, let me return to -her—was because she fell out of love with him. Then -there was a still longer time when I thought the reason -was the fact that the very Saturday I got a raise to fourteen -a week, he fell from twelve to eight. But latterly -I have known the truth. How many of us know the -truth, the down-at-the-bottom, absolute truth, about -why she married us instead of the other fellow? Very -few, I guess—or we’d be puffing our crops and flirting -our feathers less cantily. She took up with me again -because he dropped her. It was he that saved her, not -she or I. Only a few months ago, her old mother, doddering -on in senility, with memory dead except for early -happenings, and these fresh and vivid, said: “And -when I think how nigh Edny come to marryin’ up with -that there loud-smelling dude of a Charley Putney! If -he hadn’t ’a give her the go by, she’d sure ’a made a -fool of herself—a wantin’ me and her paw to offer him -money and a job in the undertakin’ store, to git him -back. Lawsy me! What a narrer squeak fur Princess -Edny!”</p> - -<p>Be patient, gentle reader! You shall soon be reading -things that will efface the coarse impression my old -mother-in-law’s language and all these franknesses about -our beginnings must have made upon your refined and -cultured nature. Swallow a caramel and be patient. -But don’t skip these pages. If you should, you would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span> -miss the stimulating effect of contrast, not to speak of -other benefits which I, probably vainly, hope to confer -upon you.</p> - -<p>She didn’t love me. Looking back, I see that for -many months she found it difficult to endure me. But it -was necessary that she carry off—with the neighborhood -rather than with me—her pretense of having cast -off Charley because she preferred me. We can do wonders -in the way of concealing wounded pride; we can do -equal wonders in the way of preserving a reputation -for unbroken victory. And I believe she honestly liked -me. Perhaps she liked me even more than she liked her -aromatic Charley; for, it by no means follows that we -like best where we love most. I am loth to believe—I -do not believe—that at so early an age, not quite seventeen, -she could have received my caresses and returned -them with plausibility enough to deceive me, unless she -had genuinely liked me.</p> - -<p>And what a lucky fellow I thought myself! And -how I patronized the perfumed man. And what a -thrashing I gave him—poor, harmless, witless creature!—when -I heard of his boastings that he had dropped -Edna Wheatlands because he found Sally Simpson prettier -and more <i>cultured</i>!</p> - -<p>I must have been a railway man born. At twenty-two—no, -six months after my majority—I was jumped -into a head clerkship at twelve hundred a year. Big -pay for a youngster in those days; not so bad for a -youngster even in these inflated years. When I brought -Edna the news I think she began to love me. To her -that salary was a halo, a golden halo round me—made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span> -me seem a superior person. She had long thought -highly of my business abilities, for she was shrewd and -had listened when the older people talked, and they were -all for me as the likeliest young man of the neighborhood.</p> - -<p>“I’ve had another raise,” said I carelessly. We were -sitting on her front porch, she upon the top step, I -two steps down.</p> - -<p>“Another!” she said. “Why, the last was only -two months ago.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, they’ve pushed me up to twelve hundred a -year—a little more, for it’s twenty-five per.”</p> - -<p>“Gee!” she exclaimed, and I can see her pretty face -now—all aglow, beaming a reverent admiration upon me.</p> - -<p>I rather thought I deserved it. But it has ever -been one of my vanities to pretend to take my successes -as matters of course, and even to depreciate them. They -say the English invariably win in diplomacy because -they act dissatisfied with what they get, never grumbling -so sourly as when they capture the whole hog. I can -believe it. That has been my policy, and it has worked -rather well. Still, any policy works well if the man has -the gift for success. “Twenty-five per,” I repeated, to -impress it still more deeply upon her and to revel in the -thrilling words. “Before I get through I’ll make them -pay me what I’m worth.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think you’ll ever be making more than -that?” exclaimed she, wonderingly.</p> - -<p>“I’ll be getting two thousand some day,” said I, far -more confidently than I felt.</p> - -<p>“Oh—Godfrey!” she said softly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>And as I looked at her I for the first time felt a certain -peculiar thrill that comes only when the soul of the -woman a man loves rushes forth to cling to his soul. -In my life I have never had—and never shall have—a -happier moment.</p> - -<p>Once more patience, gentle reader! I know this bit -of sordidness—this glow of sentiment upon a vulgar material -incident—disgusts your delicate soul. I am aware -that you have a proper contempt for all the coarse details -of life. You would not be <i>gentle</i> reader if you -hadn’t. You would be a plain man or woman, living -busily and usefully, and making people happy in the -plain ways in which the human animal finds happiness. -You would not be devoting your days to making soul-food -out of idealistic moonshine and dreaming of ways -to dazzle yourself and your acquaintances into thinking -you a superior person.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” said my pretty Edna, advancing -her bond at least halfway toward meeting mine, “do -you know, I’ve had an instinct, a presentiment of this? -I was dreaming it when I woke up this morning.”</p> - -<p>I’ve observed that every woman in her effort to prove -herself “not like other girls” pretends to some occult -or other equally supranatural quality. One dreams -dreams. Another gets spirit messages. A third has -seen ghosts. Another has a foot which sculptors have -longed to model. A fifth has a note in her voice which -the throat specialists pronounce unique in the human -animal and occurring only in certain rare birds and -Sarah Bernhardt. I met one not long ago who had -several too many or too few skins, I forget which, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span> -as a result was endowed with I cannot recall what -nervous qualities quite peculiar to herself, and somehow -most valuable and fascinating. In that early stage of -her career my Edna was “hipped” upon a rather commonplace -personal characteristic—the notion that she -had premonitions, was a sort of seeress or prophetess. -Later she dropped it for one less tiresome and overworked. -But I recall that even in that time of my deepest -infatuation I wished to hear as little as possible -about the occult. Of all the shallow, foggy fakes that -attract ignorant and miseducated people the occult is -the most inexcusable and boring. A great many people, -otherwise apparently rather sensible, seem honestly to -believe in it. But, being sensible, they don’t have anything -to do with it. They treat it as practical men -treat the idiotic in the creeds and the impossible in the -moral codes of the churches to which they belong—that -is, they assent and proceed to dismiss and to forget.</p> - -<p>However, I was not much impressed by Edna’s attempt -to dazzle me with her skill as a Sibyl. But I was -deeply impressed by the awe-inspiring softness and -shapeliness of her hand lying prisoner in mine. And I -was moved to the uttermost by the kisses and embraces -we exchanged in the gathering dusk. “I love you,” she -murmured into my ecstatic ear. “You are so different -from the other men round here.”</p> - -<p>I dilated with pride.</p> - -<p>“So far ahead of them in every way.”</p> - -<p>“Ahead of Charley Putney?” said I, jocose but -jealous withal.</p> - -<p>She laughed with a delightful look of contemptuous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span> -scorn in her cute face. “Oh, <i>he</i>!” she scoffed. “He’s -getting only eight a week, and he’ll never get any -more.”</p> - -<p>“Not if his boss has sense,” said I, thinking myself -judicial. “But let’s talk about ourselves. We can be -married now.”</p> - -<p>I advanced this timidly, for being a truly-in-love -lover I was a little afraid of her, a little uncertain of -this priceless treasure. But she answered promptly, -“Yes, I was thinking of that.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s do it right away,” proposed I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, not for several weeks. It wouldn’t be proper.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>She couldn’t explain. She only knew that there was -something indecent about haste in such matters, that -the procedure must be slow and orderly and stately. -“We’ll marry the first of next month,” she finally decided, -and I joyfully acquiesced.</p> - -<p>Some of my readers—both of the gentle and of the -other kind—may be surprised that a girl of seventeen -should be so self-assured, so independent. They must -remember that she was a daughter of the people; and -among the people a girl of seventeen was, and I suppose -still is, ready for marriage, ready and resolved to decide -all important matters for herself. At seventeen -Edna, in self-poise and in experience, judgment and all -the other mature qualities, was the equal of the carefully -sheltered girl of twenty-five or more. She may have -been brought up a lady, may have been in all essential -ways as useless as the most admired of that weariful -and worthless class. But the very nature of her surroundings,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span> -in that simple household and that simple -community, had given her a certain practical education. -And I may say here that to it she owes all she is to-day. -Do not forget this, gentle reader, as you read -about her and as she dazzles you. As you look at the -gorgeous hardy rose do not forget that such spring -only from the soil, develop only in the open.</p> - -<p>That very evening we began to look for a home. -As soon as we were outside her front gate she turned -in the direction of the better part of the town. Nor -did she pause or so much as glance at a house until we -were clear of the neighborhood in which we had always -lived, and were among houses much superior. I admired, -and I still admire, this significant move of hers. -It was the gesture of progress, of ambition. It was -splendidly American. I myself should have been content -to settle down near our fathers and mothers, among the -people we knew. I should no doubt have been better -satisfied to keep up the mode of living to which we had -been used all our lives. The time would have come -when I should have reached out for more comfort and for -luxury. But it was natural that she should develop in -this direction before I did. She had read her novels -and her magazines, had the cultured woman’s innate -fondness for dress and show, had had nothing but those -kinds of things to think about; I had been too busy -trying to make money to have any time for getting -ideas about spending it.</p> - -<p>No; while her motive in seeking better things than -we had known was in the main a vanity and a sham, her -action had as much <i>initial</i> good in it as if her motive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span> -had been sensible and helpful. And back of the motive -lay an instinct for getting up in the world that has -been the redeeming and preserving trait in her character. -It was this instinct that ought to have made -her the fit wife for an ambitious and advancing man. -You will presently see how this fine and useful instinct -was perverted by vanity and false education and the pernicious -example of other women.</p> - -<p>“The rents are much higher in this neighborhood,” -said I, with a doubtful but admiring look round at the -pretty houses and their well-ordered grounds.</p> - -<p>“Of course,” said she. “But maybe we can find -something. Anyway, it won’t do any harm to look.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” I assented, for I liked the idea myself. -This better neighborhood <i>looked</i> more like her than her -own, seemed to her lover’s eyes exactly suited to her -beauty and her stylishness—for the “Lady Book” was -teaching her to make herself far more attractive to the -eye than were the other girls over in our part of town. -I still puzzle at why Charley Putney gave her up; the -only plausible theory seems to be that she was so sick -in love with him that she wearied him. The most attractive -girl in the world, if she dotes on a young man too -ardently, will turn his stomach, and alarm his delicate -sense of feminine propriety.</p> - -<p>As we walked on, she with an elate and proud air, -she said: “How different it smells over here!”</p> - -<p>At first I didn’t understand what she meant. But, -as I thought of her remark, the meaning came. And I -believe that was the beginning of my dissatisfaction with -what I had all my life had in the way of surroundings.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span> -I have since observed that the sense of smell is blunt, -is almost latent, in people of the lower orders, and that -it becomes more acute and more sensitive as we ascend -in the social scale. Up to that time my ambition to -rise had been rather indefinite—a desire to make money -which everyone seemed to think was the highest aim in -life—and also an instinct to beat the other fellows working -with me. Now it became definite. I began to smell. -I wanted to get away from unpleasant smells. I do not -mean that this was a resolution, all in the twinkling of -an eye. I simply mean that, as everything must have -a beginning, that remark of hers was for me the beginning -of a long and slow but steady process of what -may be called civilizing.</p> - -<p>Presently she said: “If we couldn’t afford a house, -we might take one of the flats.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m afraid you’d be lonesome, away off from -everybody we know.”</p> - -<p>She tossed her head. “A good lonesome,” said she. -“I’m tired of <i>common</i> people. I was reading about reincarnations -the other day.”</p> - -<p>“Good Lord!” laughed I. “What are they?”</p> - -<p>She explained—as well as she could—probably as -well as anybody could. I admired her learning but the -thing itself did not interest me. “I guess there must be -something in it,” she went on. “I’m sure in a former -life I was something a lot different from what I am now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’re all right,” I assured her, putting my -arm round her in the friendly darkness of a row of sidewalk -elms.</p> - -<p>When we had indulged in an interlude of love-making,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span> -she returned to the original subject. “I wonder -how much rent we could afford to pay,” said she.</p> - -<p>“They say the rent ought never to be more per -month than the income is per week.”</p> - -<p>“Then we could pay twenty-five a month.”</p> - -<p>That seemed to me a lot to pay—and, indeed, it was. -But she did not inherit Weeping Willie’s tightness; -and she had never had money to spend or any training -in either making or spending money. That is to say, -she was precisely as ignorant of the main business of -life as is the rest of American womanhood under our -ridiculous system of education. So, twenty-five dollars -a month rent meant nothing to her. “We can’t do -anything to-night,” said she. “But I’ve got my days -free, and I’ll look at different places, and when I find -several to choose from we can come in the evening or -on Sunday and decide.”</p> - -<p>This suited me exactly. We dismissed the matter, -hunted out a shady nook, and sat down to enjoy ourselves -after the manner of young lovers on a fine night. -Never before had she given herself freely to love. I -know now it was because never before had she loved me. -I was deliriously happy that night, and I am sure she -was too. She no less than I had the ardent temperament -that goes with the ambitious nature; and now that she -was idealizing me into the man who could lead her to the -fairy lands she dreamed of, she gave me her whole heart.</p> - -<p>It was the beginning of what was beyond question -the happiest period of both our lives. I have a dim -old photograph of us two taken about that time. At a -glance you see it is the picture of two young people of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span> -the working class—two green, unformed creatures, -badly dressed and gawkily self-conscious. But there is -a look in her face—and in mine— To be quite honest, -I’m glad I don’t look like that now. I wouldn’t go back -if I could. Nevertheless— How we loved each other!—and -how happy we were!</p> - -<p>I feel that I weary you, gentle reader. There is in -my sentiment too much about wages and flat rents and -the smells that come from people who work hard and -live in poor places and eat badly cooked strong food. -But that is not my fault. It is life. And if you believe -that your and your romancers’ tawdry imaginings are -better than life—well, you may not be so wise or so exalted -as you fancy.</p> - -<p>The upshot of our inspecting places to live and haggling -over prices was that we took a flat in the best -quarter of Passaic—the top and in those elevatorless -days the cheapest flat in the house. We were to pay -forty dollars a month—a stiff rent that caused excitement -in our neighborhood and set my mother and her -father to denouncing us as a pair of fools bent upon -ruin. I thought so, myself. But I could have denied -Edna nothing at that time, and I made up my mind that -by working harder than ever at the railway office I -would compel another raise. When I told my mother -about this secret resolve of mine, she said:</p> - -<p>“If you do get more money, Godfrey, don’t tell -Edna. She’s a fool. She’ll keep your nose to the grindstone -all your life if you ain’t careful. It takes a better -money-maker than you’re likely to be to hold up against -that kind of a woman.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>“Oh, she’s like all girls,” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s just it,” replied my mother. “That’s why -I ain’t got no use for women. Look what poor managers -they are. Look how they idle and waste and run -into debt.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s a lot to be said against the men, too. -Saloons, for instance.”</p> - -<p>“And talkin’ politics with loafers,” said my father’s -wife bitterly.</p> - -<p>“I guess the trouble with men and women is they’re -too human,” said I, who had inherited something of the -philosopher from my father. “And, mother, a man’s -got to get married—and he’s got to marry a woman.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose he has,” she grudgingly assented. -“Mighty poor providers most of the men is, and mighty -poor use the women make of what little the men brings -home. But about you and Edny Wheatlands— You -ought to do better’n her, Godfrey. You’re caught by -her looks and her style and her education. None of -them things makes a good wife.”</p> - -<p>“I certainly wouldn’t marry a girl that didn’t have -them—all three.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s something more,” insisted mother.</p> - -<p>“One woman can’t have everything,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No, but she can have what I mean—and she’s not -much good to a man without it. If you’re set on marrying -her wait till <i>you’re</i> ready, anyhow. <i>She</i> never will -be.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, mother?”</p> - -<p>“Wait till you’ve got money in the savings bank. -Wait till you’ve got used to having money. Then maybe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span> -you’ll be able to put a bit on a spendthrift wife even -if you are crazy about her. You’re making a wrong -start with her, Godfrey. You’re giving her the upper -hand, and that’s bad for women like her—mighty bad.”</p> - -<p>It was from my mother that I get my ability at business. -She and I often had sensible talks, and her advice -started me right in the railroad office and kept me right -until I knew my way. So I did not become angry at -her plain speaking, but appreciated its good sense, even -though I thought her prejudiced against my Edna. -However, I had not the least impulse to put off the marriage. -My one wish was to hasten it. Never before -or since was time so leisurely. But the day dragged -itself up at last, and we were married in church, at -what seemed to us then enormous expense. There was -a dinner afterward at which everyone ate and drank -too much—a coarse and common scene which I will spare -gentle reader. Edna and I went up to New York City -for a Friday to Monday honeymoon. But we were back -to spend Sunday night in our grand forty-dollar flat. -On Monday morning I went to work again—a married -man, an important person in the community.</p> - -<p>Never has any height I have attained or seen since -equalled the grandeur of that forty-dollar flat. My -common sense tells me that it was a small and poor -affair. I remember, for example, that the bathroom -was hardly big enough to turn round in. I recall that -I have sat by the window in the parlor and without -rising have reached a paper on a table at the other end -of the room. But these hard facts in no way interfere -with or correct the flat as my imagination persists in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span> -picturing it. What vistas of rooms!—what high ceilings—what -woodwork—and plumbing!—and what magnificent -furniture! Edna’s father, in a moment of generosity, -told her he would pay for the outfitting of the -household. And being in the undertaking business he -could get discounts on furniture and even on kitchen -utensils. Edna did the selecting. I thought everything -wonderful and, as I have said, my imagination -refuses to recreate the place as it actually was. But I -recall that there was a brave show of red and of plush, -and we all know what that means. Whether her “Lady -Book” had miseducated her or her untrained eyes, excited -by the gaudiness she saw when she went shopping, -had beguiled her from the counsels of the “Lady Book,” -I do not know. But I am sure, as I recall red and plush, -that our first home was the typical horror inhabited by -the extravagant working-class family.</p> - -<p>No matter. There we were in Arcadia. For a time -her restless soaring fancy, wearied perhaps by its audacious -flight to this lofty perch of red and plush and -forty dollars a month, folded its wings and was content. -For a time her pride and satisfaction in the luxurious -newness overcame her distaste and disdain and moved -her to keep things spotless. I recall the perfume of -cleanness that used to delight my nostrils at my evening -homecoming, and then the intoxicating perfume of Edna -herself—the aroma of healthy young feminine beauty. -We loved each other, simply, passionately, in the old-fashioned -way. With the growth of intelligence, with -the realization on the part of men that her keep is a -large part of the reason in the woman’s mind if not in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span> -her heart for marrying and loving, there has come a -decline and decay of the former reverence and awe of -man toward woman. Also, the men nowadays know -more about the mystery of woman, know everything -about it, where not so many years ago a pure woman -was to a man a real religious mystery. Her physical -being, the clothes she wore underneath, the supposedly -sweet and clean thoughts, nobler than his, that dwelt -in the temple of her soul—these things surrounded a -girl with an atmosphere of thrilling enigma for the -youth who won from her lips and from the church the -right to explore.</p> - -<p>All that has passed, or almost passed. I am one -of those who believe that what has come, or, rather, is -coming, to take its place is better, finer, nobler. But -the old order had its charm. What a charm for me!—who -had never known any woman well, who had dreamed -of her passionately but purely and respectfully. There -was much of pain—of shyness, fear of offending her -higher nature, uneasiness lest I should be condemned -and cast out—in those early days of married life. But -it was a sweet sort of pain. And when we began to understand -each other—to be human, though still on our -best behavior—when we found that we were congenial, -were happy together in ways undreamed of, life seemed -to be paying not like the bankrupt it usually is when -the time for redeeming its promises comes but like a -benevolent prodigal, like a lottery whose numbers all -draw capital prizes. I admit the truth of much the -pessimists have to say against Life. But one thing I -must grant it. When in its rare generous moments it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span> -relents, it does know how to play the host at the feast—how -to spread the board, how to fill the flagons and -to keep them filled, how to scatter the wreaths and the -garlands, how to select the singers and the dancers who -help the banqueters make merry. When I remember -my honeymoon, I almost forgive you, Life, for the -shabby tricks you have played me.</p> - -<p>Now I can conceive a honeymoon that would last -on and on, not in the glory and feverish joy of its first -period, but in a substantial and satisfying human happiness. -But not a honeymoon with a wife who is no -more fitted to be a wife than the office boy is fitted to -step in and take the president’s job. Patience, gentle -reader! I know how this sudden shriek of discord across -the amorous strains of the honeymoon music must have -jarred your nerves. But be patient and I will explain.</p> - -<p>Except ourselves, every other family in the house, -in the neighborhood, had at least one servant. We had -none. If Edna had been at all economical we might -have kept a cook and pinched along. But Edna spent -carelessly all the money I gave her, and I gave her -all there was. A large part of it went for finery for -her personal adornment, trash of which she soon tired—much -of it she disliked as soon as it came home and she -tried it on without the saleslady to flatter and confuse. -I—in a good-natured way, for I really felt perfectly -good-humored about it—remonstrated with her for letting -everybody rob her, for getting so little for her -money. She took high ground. Such things were beneath -her attention. If I had wanted a wife of that -dull, pinch-penny kind I’d certainly not have married<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span> -her, a talented, educated woman, bent on improving her -mind and her position in the world. And that seemed -reasonable. Still, the money was going, the bills were -piling up, and I did not know what to do.</p> - -<p>And—she did the cooking. I think I have already -said that she had not learned to cook. How she and -her mother expected her to get along as a poor clerk’s -wife I can’t imagine. The worst of it was, she believed -she could cook. That is the way with women. They -look down on housekeeping, on the practical side of life, -as too coarse and low to be worthy their attention. -They say all that sort of thing is easy, is like the toil -of a day laborer. They say anybody could do it. And -they really believe so. Men, no matter how high their -position, weary and bore themselves every day, because -they must, with routine tasks beside which dishwashing -has charm and variety. Yet women shirk their proper -and necessary share of life’s burden, pretending that it -is beneath them.</p> - -<p>Edna, typical woman, thought she could cook and -keep house because she, so superior, could certainly do -inferior work if she chose. But after that first brief -spurt of enthusiasm, of daily conference with the “Lady -Book’s Complete Housekeeper’s Guide,” the flat was -badly kept—was really horribly kept—was worse than -either her home or mine before we had been living there -many months. It took on much the same odor. It -looked worse, as tawdry finery, when mussy and dirty, -is more repulsive than a plain toilet gone back. I did -not especially mind that. But her cooking— I had -not been accustomed to anything especially good in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span> -way of cooking. Mother was the old-fashioned fryer, -and you know those fryers always served the vegetables -soggy. I could have eaten exceedingly poor stuff -without complaining or feeling like complaining. But -the stuff she was soon flinging angrily upon the slovenly -table I could not eat. She ate it, enough of it to keep -alive, and it didn’t seem to do her any harm. How -many women have you known who were judges of things -to eat? Do you understand how women continue to eat -the messes they put into their pretty mouths, and keep -alive?</p> - -<p>I could not eat Edna’s cooking. I ate bread, cold -meats and the like from the delicatessen shop. When -the meal happened to be of her own preparing I dropped -into the habit of slipping away after a pretense at eating, -to get breakfast or dinner or supper in a restaurant—the -cheapest kind of restaurant, but I ate there -with relish. And never once did I murmur to Edna. I -loved her too well; also, I am by nature a tolerant, -even-tempered person, hating strife, avoiding the harsh -word. In fact, my timidity in that respect has been -my chief weakness, has cost me dear again and again. -But——</p> - -<p>After ten months of married life Edna fell ill. All -you married men will prick up your ears at that. Why -is it that bread winners somehow contrive to keep on -their feet most of the time, little though they know as -to caring for their health, reckless though they are in -eating and drinking? Why is it that married women—unless -they have to work—spend so much time in sick -bed or near it? They say we in America have more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span> -than nine times as many doctors proportionately to -population as any other country. The doctors live off -of our women—our idle, overeating, lazy women who will -not work, who will not walk, who are always getting -something the matter with them. Of course the doctors—parasites -upon parasites—fake up all kinds of lies, -many of them malicious slanders against the husbands, -to excuse their patients and to keep them patients. But -what is the truth?</p> - -<p>Edna, who read all the time she was not plotting to -get acquainted with our neighbors—they looked down -upon us and wished to have nothing to do with us—Edna -who ate quantities of candy between meals and -ate at meals rich things she bought of confectioners -and bakers—Edna fell ill and frightened me almost out -of my senses. I understand it now. But I did not -understand then. I believed, as do all ignorant people—both -the obviously ignorant and the ignorant who -pass for enlightened—I believed sickness to be a mysterious -accident, like earthquakes and lightning strokes, -a hit-or-miss blow from nowhere in particular. So I -was all sympathy and terror.</p> - -<p>She got well. She looked as well as ever. But she -said she was not strong. “And Godfrey, we simply -have got to keep a girl. I’ve borne up bravely. But -I can’t stand it any longer. You see for yourself, the -rough work and the strain of housekeeping are too much -for me.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said I. The bills, including the doctor’s -and drug bills, were piling up. We were more -than a thousand dollars in debt. But I said: “Very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span> -well. You are right.” We men do not realize that there -are two distinct and equal expressions of strength. The -strength of bulk, that is often deceptive in that it looks -stronger than it is; the strength of fiber, that is always -deceptive in that it is stronger than it looks. In a general -way, man has the strength of bulk, woman the -strength of fiber. So man looks on woman’s appearance -of fragility and fancies her weak and himself the -stronger. I looked at Edna, and said: “Very well. We -must have a girl to help.”</p> - -<p>I shan’t linger upon this part of my story. I am -tempted to linger, but, after all, it is the commonplace of -American life, familiar to all, though understood apparently -by only a few. Why do more than ninety per cent -of our small business men fail? Why are the savings -banks accounts of our working classes a mere fraction of -those of the working classes of other countries? And so -on, and so on. But I see your impatience, gentle reader, -with these matters so “inartistic.” We sank deeper and -deeper in debt. Edna’s health did not improve. The -girl we hired had lived with better class people; she despised -us, shirked her work, and Edna did not know -how to manage her. If the head of the household is -incompetent and indifferent, a servant only aggravates -the mess, and the more servants the greater the mess. -All Edna’s interest was for her music, her novels, her -social advancement, and her dreams of being a grand -lady. These dreams had returned with increased power; -they took complete possession of her. They soured her -disposition, made her irritable, usually blue or cross, -only at long intervals loving and sweet. No, perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span> -the dreams were not responsible. Perhaps—probably—the -real cause was the upset state of her health -through the absurd idle life she led. Idle and lonely. -For she would not go with whom she could, she could -not go with whom she would.</p> - -<p>“I’m sick of sitting alone,” said she. “No wonder -I can’t get well.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s go back near the old folks,” suggested I. -“Our friends won’t come to see us in this part of the -town. They feel uncomfortable.”</p> - -<p>“I should think they would!” cried she. “And if -they came I’d see to it that they were so uncomfortable -that they would never come again.”</p> - -<p>I worked hard. My salary went up to fifteen hundred, -to two thousand, to twenty-five hundred. “Now,” -said Edna, “perhaps you’ll get hands that won’t look -like a laboring man’s. How can I hope to make nice -friends when I’ve a husband with broken finger nails?”</p> - -<p>Our expenses continued to outrun my salary, but I -was not especially worried, for I began to realize that -I had the money-making talent. Three children were -born; only the first—Margot—lived. Looking back -upon those six years of our married life, I see after the -first year only a confused repellent mess of illness, -nurses, death, doctors, quarrels with servants, untidy -rooms and clothes, slovenly, peevish wife, with myself -watching it all in a dazed, helpless way, thinking it must -be the normal, natural order of domestic life—which, -indeed, it is in America—and wondering where and how -it was to end.</p> - -<p>I recall going home one afternoon late, to find Edna<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span> -yawning listlessly over some book in a magazine culture -series. Her hair hung every which way, her wrapper -was torn and stained. Her skin had the musty look -that suggests unpleasant conditions both without and -within. Margot, dirty, pimply from too much candy, -sat on the floor squalling.</p> - -<p>“Take the child away,” cried Edna, at sight of me. -“I thought you’d never come. A little more of this and -I’ll kill myself. What is there to live for, anyhow?”</p> - -<p>Silent and depressed, I took Margot for a walk. -And as I wandered along sadly I was full of pity for -Edna, and felt that somehow the blame was wholly mine -for the wretched plight of our home life.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When I was twenty-eight and Edna twenty-three, I -had a series of rapid promotions which landed me in -New York in the position of assistant traffic superintendent. -My salary was eight thousand a year.</p> - -<p>It so happened—coincidence and nothing else—that -those eighteen months of quick advance for me also -marked a notable change in Edna.</p> - -<p>There are some people—many people—so obsessed -of the know-it-all vanity that they can learn nothing. -Nor are all these people preachers, doctors, and teachers, -gentle reader. Then there is another species who -pretend to know all, who are chary of admitting to -learning or needing to learn anything, however small, -yet who behind their pretense toil at improving themselves -as a hungry mouse gnaws at the wall of the -cheese box. Of this species was Edna. As she was fond -of being mysterious about her thoughts and intentions,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[36]</span> -she never told me what set her going again after that -long lethargy. Perhaps it was some woman whom she -had a sudden opportunity thoroughly to study, some -woman who knew and lived the ideas Edna had groped -for in vain. Perhaps it was a novel she read or articles -in her magazines. It doesn’t matter. I never asked -her; I had learned that wild horses would not drag from -her a confession of where she had got an idea, because -such a confession would to her notion detract from her -own glory. However, the essential fact is that she suddenly -roused and set to work as she had never worked -before—went at it like a prospector who, after toiling -now hard and now discouragedly for years, strikes by -accident a rich vein of gold. Edna showed in every -move that she not hoped, not believed, but knew she was -at last on the right track. She began to take care, -scrupulous care, of her person—the minute intelligent -care she has ever since been expanding and improving -upon, has never since relaxed, and never will relax. Also -she began to plan and to move definitely in the matter -of taking care of Margot—to look after her speech, her -manners, her food, her person, especially, perhaps, the -last. Margot’s teeth, Margot’s hair, Margot’s walk, -Margot’s feet and hands and skin, the shape of her nose, -the set of her ears—all these things she talked about and -fussed with as agitatedly as about her own self.</p> - -<p>Edna became a crank on the subject of food—what -is called a crank by the unthinking, of whom, by the -way, I was to my lasting regret one until a few years -ago. For a year or two her moves in this important -direction were blundering, intermittent, and not always<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span> -successful—small wonder when there is really no reliable -information to be had, the scientists being uncertain and -the doctors grossly ignorant. But gradually she -evolved and lived upon a “beauty diet.” Margot, of -course, had to do the same. She took exercises morning -and night, took long and regular walks for the figure -and skin and to put clearness and brightness into the -eyes. I believe she and Margot, with occasional lapses, -keep up their regimen to this day.</p> - -<p>The house was as slattern as ever. The diet and -comfort and health of the family bread-winner were no -more the subject of thought and care than—well, than -the next husband’s to his wife. She gave some attention—intelligent -and valuable attention, I cheerfully concede—to -improving my speech, manners, and dress. -But beyond that the revolution affected only her and -her daughter. Them it affected amazingly. In three -or four months the change in their appearance was -literally beyond belief. Edna’s beauty and style came -back—no, burst forth in an entirely new kind of radiance -and fascination. As for little Margot, she transformed -from homeliness, from the scrawny pasty look -of bad health, from bad temper, into as neat and sweet -and pretty a little lady as could be found anywhere.</p> - -<p>You, gentle reader, who are ever ready to slop over -with some kind of sentimentality because in your shallowness -you regard sentimentality—not sentiment, for -of that you know nothing, but sentimentality—as the -most important thing in the world, just as a child regards -sickeningly rich cake as the finest food in the -world—you, gentle reader, have already made up your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span> -mind why Edna thus suddenly awakened, or, rather, reawakened. -“Aha,” you are saying. “Served him good -and right. She found some one who appreciated her.” -That guess of yours shows how little you know about -Edna or the Edna kind of human being. The people -who do things in this world, except in our foolish American -novels, do because they must. They may do better -or worse under the influence of love, which is full as -often a drag as a spur. But they do not <i>do</i> because -of love. I shall not argue this. I shrink from gratuitously -inviting an additional vial of wrath from the -ladies, who resent being told how worthless they in their -indolence and self-complacence permit themselves to be -and how small a positive part they now play in the -world drama. I should have said nothing at all about -the matter, were it not that I wish to be strictly just -to Edna, and she, being wholly the ambitious woman, -has always had and still has a deep horror of scandal, -intrigue, irregularity, and unconventionality of every -sort.</p> - -<p>It was necessary that we move to a place more convenient -to my business headquarters in New York City. -A few weeks after I got the eight thousand a year, -Edna, and little Margot and I went to Brooklyn to -live—took a really charming house in Bedford Avenue, -with large grounds around it. And once more we were -happy. It seemed to me we had started afresh.</p> - -<p>And we had.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">II</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Why</span> did we go to Brooklyn?</p> - -<p>By the time Edna and I had been married six years -I learned many things about her inmost self. I was -not at all analytic or critical as to matters at home. I -used my intelligence in my own business; I assumed that -my wife had intelligence and that she used it in her -business—her part of our joint business. I believed -the reason her part of it went badly was solely the -natural conditions of life beyond her control. A railroad, -a factory could be run smoothly; a family and a -household were different matters. And I admired my -wife as much as I loved her, and regarded her as a -wonderful woman, which, indeed, in certain respects she -was.</p> - -<p>But I had discovered in her several weaknesses. -Some of these I knew; others I did not permit myself -to know that I knew. For example, I was perfectly -aware that she was not so truthful as one might -be. But I did not let myself admit that she was not -always unconscious of her own deviations from the -truth. I had gained enough experience of life to learn -that lying is practically a universal weakness. So I -did not especially mind it in her, often found it amusing. -I had not then waked up to the fact that, as a -rule, women systematically lie to their husbands about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span> -big things and little, and that those women who profess -to be too proud to lie, do their lying by indirections, -such as omissions, half truths, and misleading -silences. I am not criticising. Self-respect, real personal -pride, I have discovered in spite of the reading -matter of all kinds about the past, is a modern development, -is still in embryo; and those of us who profess to -be the proudest are either the most ignorant of ourselves -or the most hypocritical.</p> - -<p>But back to my acquaintance with my wife’s character. -When I told her we should have to live nearer -my work, my new work, than Passaic, she promptly said:</p> - -<p>“Let’s go to Brooklyn.”</p> - -<p>“Why not to New York?” said I. “At least until -I get thoroughly trained, I want to be close to the -office.”</p> - -<p>“But there’s Margot,” said she. “Margot must -have a place to play in. And we couldn’t afford such a -place in New York. I can’t let her run about the streets -or go to public schools. She’d pick up all sorts of low, -coarse associates and habits.”</p> - -<p>“Then let’s go to some town opposite—across the -Hudson. If we can’t live on Manhattan Island, and I -think you’re right about Margot, why, let’s live where -living is cheap. We ought to be saving some money.”</p> - -<p>“I hate these Jersey towns,” said Edna petulantly. -“I don’t think Margot would get the right sort of -social influences in them.”</p> - -<p>As soon as she said “social influences” I should -have understood the whole business. The only person -higher up on the social ladder with whom Edna had been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span> -able to scrape intimate acquaintance in Passaic was a -dowdy, tawdry chatterbox of a woman—I forget her -name—who talked incessantly of the fashionable people -she knew in Brooklyn—how she had gone there a stranger, -had joined St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, and had -at once become a social favorite, invited to “the very -best houses, my dear; such lovely homes,” and associated -with “the most charming cultured people,” and -so on and on—you know the rest of the humbug.</p> - -<p>Now, one of the discoveries about my wife which I -but half understood and made light of, had been that -she was mad, literally mad, on the subject of social -climbing. That means she was possessed of the disease -imported into this country from England, where it has -raged for upward of half a century—the disease of being -bent upon associating by hook or by crook with people -whose strongest desire seems to be not to associate with -you. This plague does not spare the male population—by -no means. But it rages in and ravages the female -population almost to a woman. Our women take incidental -interest or no interest in their homes, in their -husbands, in their children. Their hearts are centered -upon social position, and, of course, the money-squandering -necessary to attaining or to keeping it. The -women who are “in” spend all their time, whatever -they may seem to be about, in spitting upon and kicking -the faces of the women who are trying to get “in.” -The women who are trying to get “in” spend their -whole time in smiling and cringing and imploring and -plotting and, when it seems expedient, threatening and -compelling. Probe to the bottom—if you have acuteness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span> -enough, which you probably haven’t—probe to the -bottom any of the present-day activities of the American -woman, I care not what it may be, and you will -discover the bacillus of social position biting merrily -away at her. If she goes to church or to a lecture or -a concert—if she goes calling or stays at home—if she -joins a suffrage movement or a tenement reform propaganda, -or refuses to join—if she dresses noisily or -plainly—if she shuns society or seeks it, if she keeps -house or leaves housekeeping to servants, roaches, and -mice—if she cares for or neglects her children—if she -pets her husband or displaces him with another—no -matter what she does, it is at the behest of the poison -flowing through brain and vein from the social-position -bacillus. She thinks by doing whatever she does she -will somehow make her position more brilliant or less -insecure, or, having no position at all, will gain one.</p> - -<p>And the men? They pay the bills. Sometimes reluctantly, -again eagerly; sometimes ignorantly, again -with full knowledge. The men—they pay the bills.</p> - -<p>Now you know better far than I knew at the time -why our happy little family went to Brooklyn, took -the house in Bedford Avenue which we could ill afford -if we were to save any money, and joined St. Mary’s.</p> - -<p>A couple of years after we were married my wife -stopped me when I was telling her what had happened -at the office that day, as was my habit. “You ought -to leave all those things outside when you come home,” -said she.</p> - -<p>She had read this in a book somewhere, I guess. It -was a new idea to me. “Why should I?” said I.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>“Home is a place for happiness, with all the sordidness -shut out,” explained she. “Those sordid things -ought not to touch our life together.”</p> - -<p>This sounded all right. “It seemed to me,” stammered -I, apologetically, “that my career, the way I -was getting on, that our bread and butter— Well, I -thought we ought to kind of talk it over together.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I do sympathize with you,” said, or rather -quoted, she. “But my place is to soothe and smooth -away the cares of business. You ought to try not to -think of them at home.”</p> - -<p>“But what <i>would</i> I think about?” cried I, much -perplexed. “Why, my business is all I’ve got. It’s the -most important thing in the world to us. It means our -living. At least that’s the way the thing looks to me.”</p> - -<p>“You ought to think at home about the higher side -of life—the intellectual side.”</p> - -<p>“But my business <i>is</i> my intellectual side,” I said. -“And I can’t for the life of me see why thinking about -things that don’t advance us and don’t pay the bills is -better than thinking about things that do.” It seemed -to me that this looking on my business as something -to be left on the mud-scraper at the entrance indicated -a false idea of it got somewhere. So I added somewhat -warmly: “There’s nothing low or bad about my business.” -And that was the truth at the time.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know anything about it,” replied she with -the gentle patience of her superior refinement and education. -“And I don’t want to know. Those things -don’t interest me. And I think, Godfrey”—very -sweetly, with her cheek against mine—“the reason husbands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span> -and wives often grow apart is that the husband -gives his whole mind to his business and doesn’t develop -the higher side of his nature—the side that appeals to -a woman and satisfies her.”</p> - -<p>This touched my sense of humor mildly. “My -father gives his mind to one of those high sides,” said -I, “and we nearly starved to death.”</p> - -<p>“Your father!” exclaimed she in derisive disgust.</p> - -<p>“My father,” said I cheerfully, “he does nothing -but read, talk, and think politics.”</p> - -<p>“Politics! <i>That</i> isn’t on the higher side. Women -don’t care anything about <i>that</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what do they care about?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“About music and literature—and those artistic -things.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, those things are all right,” said I. “But I -don’t see that it takes any more brains or any better -brains to paint a picture or sing a song or write a -novel than it does to run a railroad—or to plan one. -If you’d try to understand business, dear,” I urged, -“you might find it as interesting and as intellectual as -anything that doesn’t help us make a living. Anyhow, -I’ve simply got to give my brains to my work. You -go ahead and attend to the higher side for the family. -I’ll stick to the job that butters the bread and keeps the -rain off.”</p> - -<p>She was patient with me, but I saw she didn’t approve. -However, as I knew she’d approve still less if -I failed to provide for her and the two young ones—there -were two at that time—I let the matter drop and -held to the common-sense course. I hadn’t the faintest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span> -notion of the seriousness of that little talk of ours. -And it was well I hadn’t, for to have made her realize -her folly I’d have had to start in and educate her—uneducate -her and then reëducate her. I don’t blame the -women. I feel sorry for them. When I hear them talk -about the lack of sympathy between themselves and -American men, about the low ideals and the sordid talk -the men indulge in, how dull it is, how different from the -inspiring, cultured talk a woman hears among the aristocrats -abroad, said aristocrats being supported in -helpless idleness throughout their useless lives, often by -hard-earned American dollars—when I hear this pitiful -balderdash from fair lips, I grow sad. The American -woman fancies she is growing away from the American -man. The truth is that while she is sitting still, -playing with a lapful of the artificial flowers of fake -culture, like a poor doodle-wit, the American man is -growing away from her. She knows nothing of value; -she can do nothing of value. She has nothing to offer -the American man but her physical charms, for he has -no time or taste for playing with artificial flowers -when the world’s important work is to be done. So -the poor creature grows more isolated, more neglected, -less respected, and less sought, except in a physical -way. And all the while she hugs to her bosom the -delusion that she is the great soul high sorrowful. The -world moves; many are the penalties for the nation or -the race or the sex that does not move with it, or does -not move quickly enough. I feel sorry for the American -woman—unless she has a father who will leave her rich -or a husband who will give her riches.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>I feel some of my readers saying that I must have -been most unfortunate in the women I have known. -Perhaps. But may it not be that those commiserating -readers have been rarely fortunate in their feminine -acquaintances?—or in lack of insight?</p> - -<p>Now you probably not only know why we went to -Brooklyn, but also what we did after we got there. I -have not forgotten my promise to gentle reader. I -shall not linger many moments in Brooklyn. True, it -is superior to Passaic, at least to the part of Passaic -in which I constrained gentle reader to tarry a minute -or two. But it is still far from the promised heights.</p> - -<p>My wife owes a vast deal to Brooklyn. As she -haughtily ignores the debt, would deny it if publicly -charged, I shall pay it for her. Brooklyn was her finishing -school. It made her what she is.</p> - -<p>In the last year or so we spent in Passaic there had -been, as I have hinted, a marked outward change in all -three of us. The least, or rather the least abrupt, -change had been in me. Associated in business with a -more prosperous and better-dressed and better-educated -class of men, I had gradually picked up the sort of -knowledge a man needs to fit himself for the inevitably -changing social conditions accompanying a steady advance -in material prosperity. I was as quick to learn -one kind of useful thing as another. And just as I -learned how to fill larger and larger positions and how -to make money out of the chances that come to a man -situated where money is to be made, so I learned how to -dress like a man of the better class, how to speak a less -slangy and a less ungrammatical English, how to use<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span> -my mind in thinking and in discussing a thousand subjects -not directly related to my business.</p> - -<p>If my wife had been interested in any of the important -things of the world, I could have been of the -greatest assistance to her and she to me. And we -should have grown ever closer together in sympathetic -companionship. But although she had a good mind—a -superior mind—she cared about nothing but the -things that interest foolish women and still more foolish -men—for a man who cares about splurge and show -and social position and such nonsense is less excusable, -is more foolish, than a woman of the same sort. -Women have the excuse of lack of serious occupation, -but what excuse has a man? Still, she was not idle—not -for a minute. She was, on the contrary, in her -way as busy as I. From time to time she would say -to me enigmatically: “You don’t appreciate it, but I -am preparing myself to help you fill the station your -business ability will win us a chance at.” It seemed to -me that I was doing that alone. For what was necessary -to fill that station but higher and higher skill as -a man of affairs?</p> - -<p>When we had made our entry in Brooklyn and had -seated ourselves in the state in Bedford Avenue which -she had decided for, she showed that she felt immensely -proud of herself. We took the house furnished -throughout—nicely furnished in a substantial way, -for it had been the home of one of the old Brooklyn -mercantile families.</p> - -<p>“It’s good enough to start with,” said she, casting -a critical glance round the sober, homelike dining<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span> -room. “I shan’t make any changes till I look about me.”</p> - -<p>“We couldn’t be better off,” said I. “Everything -is perfectly comfortable.” And in fact neither she nor -I had ever before known what comfort was. Looking -at that house—merely looking at it and puzzling out -the uses of the various things to us theretofore unknown—was -about as important in the way of education as -learning to read is to a child.</p> - -<p>“It’s good enough for Brooklyn,” said she. She -regarded me with her patient, tender expression of the -superior intelligence. “You haven’t much imagination -or ambition, Godfrey,” she went on. “But fortunately -<i>I</i> have. And do be careful not to betray us before the -servants I’m engaging.”</p> - -<p>The show part of the house continued to look about -as it had when we took possession. But the living part -went to pieces rapidly. We had many servants. We -spent much money—so much that, if I had not been -speculating in various ways, we should have soon gone -under. But the results were miserably poor. My wife -left everything to her servants and devoted herself to -her social career. The ex-Brooklyn society woman at -Passaic had not deceived her. No sooner had she joined -St. Mary’s than she began to have friends—friends of -a far higher social rank than she had ever even seen -at close range before. They were elegant people indeed—the -wives of the heads of departments in big -stores, the families of bank officers and lawyers and -doctors. There were even a few rather rich people. -My wife was in ecstasy for a year or two. And she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span> -improved rapidly in looks, in dress, in manners, in -speech, in all ways except in disposition and character.</p> - -<p>Except in disposition and character. As we grow -older and rise in the world, there is always a deterioration -both in disposition and in character. A man’s disposition -grows sharper through dealing with, and having -to deal sharply with, incompetence. The character -tends to harden as he is forced to make the unpleasant -and often not too scrupulous moves necessary to getting -himself forward toward success. Also, the way -everyone tries to use a successful man makes him more -and more acute in penetrating to the real motives of -his fellow beings, more and more inclined to take up -men for what he can get out of them and drop them -when he has squeezed out all the advantage—in brief, -to treat them precisely as they treat him. But the -whole object in having a home, a wife, a family, is defeated -if the man has not there a something that checks -the tendencies to cynicism and coldness which active -life not merely encourages but even compels.</p> - -<p>There was no occasion for Edna’s becoming vixenish -and hard. It was altogether due to the idiotic and -worthless social climbing. She had a swarm of friends, -yet not a single friend. She cultivated people socially, -and they cultivated her, not for the natural and kindly -and elevating reasons, but altogether for the detestable -purposes of that ghastly craze for social position. -Edna was bitter against me for a long time, never again -became fully reconciled, because I soon flatly refused to -have anything to do with it.</p> - -<p>“They will think there’s something wrong about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span> -you, and about me, if you don’t come with me,” pleaded -she.</p> - -<p>“I need my strength for my business,” said I. -“And what do I care whether they think well or ill of -me? They don’t give us any money.”</p> - -<p>“You are <i>so</i> sordid!” cried she. “Sometimes I’m -almost tempted to give up, and not try to be somebody -and to make somebodies of Margot and you.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would,” said I. “Why shouldn’t we -live quietly and mind our own business and be happy?”</p> - -<p>“How fortunate it is for Margot that she has a -mother with ambition and pride!”</p> - -<p>“Well—no matter. But please do get another -cook. This one is, if anything, worse than the last—except -when we have company.”</p> - -<p>We were forever changing cooks. The food that -came on our table was something atrocious. I heard -the same complaint from all my married associates at -the office, even from the higher officials who were rich -men and lived in great state. They, too, had American -wives. In the markets and shops I saw as I passed -along all sorts of attractive things to eat, and of real -quality. I wondered why we never had those things -on our table. Heaven knows we spent money enough. -The time came when I got a clew to the mystery.</p> - -<p>One day Edna said: “I’ve been doing my housekeeping -altogether by telephone. I think I’ll stop it, -except on rainy days and when I don’t feel well.”</p> - -<p>By telephone! I laughed to myself. No wonder we -had poor stuff and paid the highest prices for it. I -thought a while, then to satisfy my curiosity began to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span> -ask questions, very cautiously, for Edna was extremely -touchy, as we all are in matters where in our hearts -we know we are in the wrong. “Do you remember -what kind of range we have in our kitchen?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“I?” exclaimed she disgustedly. “Certainly not. -I haven’t been down to the kitchen since we first moved -into this house. I’ve something better to do than to -meddle with the servants.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” said I soothingly. And I didn’t let -her see how her confession amused me. What if a man -tried to run his business in that fashion! And ordering -by telephone! Why, it was an invitation to the tradespeople -to swindle us in every way. But I said nothing.</p> - -<p>As usually either it was bad weather or Edna was -not feeling well, or was in a rush to keep some social -engagement, the ordering for the house continued to -be done by telephone, when it was not left entirely to the -discretion of the servants. One morning it so happened -that she and I left the house at the same time. Said -she:</p> - -<p>“I’m on my way to do the marketing. It’s a terrible -nuisance, and I know so little about those things. But -it’s coming to be regarded as fashionable for a woman -to do her own marketing. Some of the best families—people -with their own carriages and servants in livery—some -of the swellest ladies in Brooklyn do it now. It’s -a fad from across the river.”</p> - -<p>“You must be careful not to overtax yourself,” -said I.</p> - -<p>And I said it quite seriously, for in those days of my -innocence I was worried about her, thought her a poor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span> -overworked angel, was glad I had the money to relieve -her from the worst tasks and to leave her free to amuse -herself and to take care of her health! I had not yet -started in the direction of ridding myself of the masculine -delusion that woman is a delicate creature by -nature if she happens to be a lady—and of course I -knew my Edna was a lady through and through. It was -many a year before I learned the truth—why ladies are -always ailing and why they can do nothing but wear -fine clothes and sit in parlors or in carriages when they -are not sitting at indigestible food, and amuse themselves -and pity themselves for being condemned to live -with coarse, uninteresting American men.</p> - -<p>Yes, I was sincere in urging her to take care how -she adopted so laborious a fad as doing her own marketing. -She went on:</p> - -<p>“If I had a carriage it wouldn’t be so bad.”</p> - -<p>She said this sweetly enough and with no suggestion -of reproach. Just the sigh of a lady’s soul at the hardness -of life’s conditions. But I, loving her, felt as if -I were somehow to blame. “You shall have a carriage -before many years,” said I. “That’s one of the things -I’ve been working for.”</p> - -<p>She gave me a look that made me feel proud I had -her to live for. “I hope I’ll be here to enjoy it,” sighed -she.</p> - -<p>I walked sad and silent by her side, profoundly impressed -and depressed by that hint as to her feeble -health. I know now it was sheer pretense with her, the -more easily to manage me and to cover her shortcomings. -I ought to have realized it then. But what man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span> -does? She certainly did not look ill, for she was not -one of those who were always stuffing themselves at teas -and lunches, and talked of a walk of five blocks as hard -exercise! She had learned how to keep health and -beauty. What intelligence it shows, that she was able -to grasp so difficult a matter; and what splendid persistence -that she was able to carry out a mode of life so -disagreeable to self-indulgence. If her intelligence and -her persistence could have been turned to use! Presently -we were at the butcher shop. I paused in the -doorway while she engaged in her arduous labor. Here -is the conversation:</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Mr. Toomey.” (Very gracious; -the lady speaking to the trades person.)</p> - -<p>“Good morning, ma’am.” (Fat little butcher touching -cracked and broken-nailed hand to hat respectfully.)</p> - -<p>“That lamb you sent yesterday was very tough.”</p> - -<p>“Sorry, ma’am. But those kind of things will happen, -you know.” (Most flatteringly humble of manner.)</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. Do your best. I’m sure you try to -please. Send me—let me see—say, two chickens for -broiling. You’ll pick out nice ones?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed, ma’am. I’ll attend to it myself.”</p> - -<p>“And something for the servants. You know what -they like.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, ma’am. I’ll attend to it.”</p> - -<p>“And you’ll not overcharge, will you?”</p> - -<p>“I, ma’am? I’ve been dealing with ladies for twenty -years, right here, ma’am. I never have overcharged.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>“I know. All the ladies tell me you’re honest. I -feel safe with you. Let me see, there were some other -things. But I’m in a hurry. The cook will tell your -boy when he takes what I’ve ordered. You’ll be sure -to give me the best?”</p> - -<p>“I’d not dare send anything else to <i>you</i>, ma’am.” -(Groveling.)</p> - -<p>A gracious smile, a gracious nod, and Edna rejoined -me. Innocent as I was, and under the spell that -blinds the American man where the American woman -is concerned, I could not but be upset by this example -of how our house was run—an example that all in an -instant brought to my mind and enabled me to understand -a score, a hundred similar examples. There was -I, toiling away to make money, earning every dollar -by the hardest kind of mental labor, struggling to rise, -to make our fortune, and each day my wife was tossing -carelessly out of the windows into the street a large -part of my earnings. I did not know what to do -about it.</p> - -<p>Edna’s next stop was at the grocer’s. I had not -the courage to halt and listen. I knew it would be a -repetition of the grotesque interview with the butcher. -And she undoubtedly a clever woman—alert, improving. -What a mystery! I went on to my office. That day, -without giving my acquaintances there an inkling of -what was in my mind, I made inquiries into how their -wives spent the money that went for food—the most -important item in the spending of incomes under ten or -twelve thousand a year. In every case the wife or the -mother did the marketing by telephone. All the men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span> -except one took the ignorance and incompetence of the -management of the household expenses as a matter of -course. One man grumbled a little. I remember he -said: “No wonder it’s hard for the men to save anything. -The women waste most of it on the table, paying -double prices for poor stuff. I tell you, Loring, -the American woman is responsible for the dishonesty of -American commercial life. They are always nagging -at the man for more and more money to spend, and in -spending it they tempt the merchants, the clerks, their -own servants, everyone within range, to become swindlers -and thieves.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nonsense,” said I. “You’re a pessimist. The -American woman is all right. Where’d you find her -equal for intelligence and charm?”</p> - -<p>“She may be intelligent,” said he. “She doesn’t -use it on anything worth while, except roping in some -poor sucker to put up <i>for</i> her and to put up <i>with</i> her. -And she may have charm, but not for a man who has -cut his matrimonial eye teeth.”</p> - -<p>I laughed at Van Dyck—that was my grumbling -friend’s name. And I soon dropped the subject from -my mind. It has never been my habit to waste time in -thinking about things when the thinking could not possibly -lead anywhere. You may say I ought to have -interfered, forced my wife to come to her senses, compelled -her to learn her business. Which shows that -you know little about the nature of the American -woman. If I had taken that course, she would have -hated me, she would have done no better, and she would -have scorned me as a sordid haggler over small sums<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span> -of money who was trying to spoil with the vulgarities -of commercial life the beauties of the home. No, I -instinctively knew enough not to interfere.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>But let us take a long leap forward to the day -when I became president of the railroad, having made -myself a rich man by judicious gambling with eight -thousand dollars loaned me by father Wheatlands. He -was a rich man, and in the way to become very rich, -and he had no heir but Edna after the drowning of -her two brothers under a sailboat in Newark Bay. -Margot was in a fashionable school over in New York. -My wife and I, still a young couple and she beautiful—my -wife and I were as happy as any married couple -can be where they let each other alone and the husband -gives the wife all the money she wishes and leaves her -free to spend it as she pleases.</p> - -<p>When I told her of my good fortune, and the sudden -and large betterment of our finances, she said with -a curious lighting of the eyes, a curious strengthening -of the chin:</p> - -<p>“Now—for New York!”</p> - -<p>“New York?” said I. “What does that mean?”</p> - -<p>“We are going to live in New York,” replied she.</p> - -<p>“But we do live in New York. Brooklyn is part -of New York.”</p> - -<p>“Legally I suppose it is,” replied she. “But morally -and æsthetically, socially, and in every other civilized -way, my dear Godfrey, it is part of the backwoods. -I can hardly wait to get away.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>“Why, I thought you were happy here!” exclaimed -I, marveling, used though I was to her keeping her own -counsel strictly about the matters that most interested -her. “You’ve certainly acted as if you loved it.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t <i>mind</i> it at first,” conceded she. “But for -two or three years I have <i>loathed</i> it, and everybody that -lives in it.”</p> - -<p>I was amazed at this last sally. “Oh, come now, -Edna,” cried I, “you’ve got lots of friends here—lots -and lots of them.”</p> - -<p>I was thinking of the dozen or so women whom she -called and who called her by the first name, women she -was with early and late. Women she was daily playing -bridge with— Bridge! I have a friend who declares -that bridge is ruining the American home, and I see his -point, but I think he doesn’t look deep enough. If it -weren’t bridge it would be something else. Bridge is a -striking example, but only a single example, of the -results of feminine folly and idleness that all flow from -the same cause. However, let us go back to my talk -with Edna. She met my protest in behalf of her friends -with a contemptuous:</p> - -<p>“I don’t know a soul who isn’t <i>frightfully</i> common.”</p> - -<p>“They’re the same sort of people we are.”</p> - -<p>“Not the same sort that <i>I</i> am,” declared she -proudly. “And not the sort Margot and you are going -to be. You’ll see. You don’t know about these things. -But fortunately I do.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t seriously mean that you want to leave -this splendid old house——”</p> - -<p>“Splendid? It’s hardly fit to live in. Of course, we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span> -had to endure it while we were poor and obscure. But -now it won’t do at all.”</p> - -<p>“And go away from all these people you’ve worked -so hard to get in with—all these friends—go away -among strangers. <i>I</i> don’t mind. But what would <i>you</i> -do? How’d you pass the days?”</p> - -<p>“These vulgar people bore me to death,” declared -she. “I’ve been advancing, if you have stood still. -Thank God, <i>I’ve</i> got ambition.”</p> - -<p>“Heaven knows they’ve never been <i>my</i> friends,” -said I. “But I must say they seem nice enough people, -as people go. What’s the matter with ’em?”</p> - -<p>“They’re common,” said she with the languor of one -explaining when he feels he will not be understood. -“They’re tiresome.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll admit they’re tiresome,” said I. “That’s why -I’ve kept away from them. But I doubt if they’re more -tiresome than people generally. The fact is, my dear, -people are all tiresome. That’s why they can’t amuse -themselves or each other, but have to be amused—have -to hire the clever people of all sorts to entertain them. -Instead of asking people here to bore us and to be bored, -why not send them seats at a theater or orders for a -first-class meal at a first-class restaurant?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you think that’s funny,” said my wife. -She had no sense of humor, and the suggestion of a jest -irritated her.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it does strike me as funny,” I admitted. -“But there’s sense in it, too.... I’m sure you don’t -want to abandon your friends here. Why make ourselves -uncomfortable all over again?” I took a serious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span> -persuasive tone. “Edna, we’re beginning to get used -to the more stylish way of living we took up when we -left Passaic and came here to live. Is it sensible to -branch out again into the untried and the unknown? -Will we be any wiser or any happier? You can shine -as the big star now in this circle of friends. You like -to run things socially. Here’s your chance.”</p> - -<p>“How could I get any pleasure out of running -things socially in St. Mary’s?” demanded she. “I’ve -outgrown it. It seems vulgar and common to me. It -is vulgar and common.”</p> - -<p>“What does that mean?” I asked innocently.</p> - -<p>“If you don’t understand, I can’t tell you,” replied -she tartly. “Surely you must see that your wife and -your daughter are superior to these people round here.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t compare my wife and daughter with other -people,” said I. “To me they’re superior to anybody -and everybody else in the world. I often wish we lived -’way off in the country somewhere. I’m sure we’d be -happier with only each other. We’re putting on too -much style to suit me, even now.”</p> - -<p>“I see you living in the country,” laughed she. -“You’d come down about once a week or month.”</p> - -<p>I couldn’t deny the truth in her accusation. I felt -it ought to have been that my wife and I were so sympathetic, -so interested in the same things, that we were -absorbed in each other. But the facts were against it. -We really had almost nothing in common. I admired -her beauty and also her intelligence and energy, though -I thought them misdirected. She, I think, liked me in -the primitive way of a woman with a man. And she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span> -admired my ability to make money, though she thought -it rather a low form of intellectual excellence. However, -as she found it extremely useful, she admired me -for it in a way. I have seen much of the aristocratic -temperament that despises money, but I have yet to see -an aristocrat who wasn’t greedier than the greediest -money-grubber—and I must say it is hard to conceive -anything lower than the spirit that grabs the gift and -despises the giver. But then, some day, when thinking -is done more clearly, we shall all see that aristocracy -and its spirit is the lowest level of human nature, is -simply a deep-seated survival of barbarism. However, -Edna and I appealed to and satisfied each other in one -way; beyond that our congeniality abruptly ended. -Looking back, I see now that talking <i>with</i> her was never -a pleasure, nor was it a pleasure to her to talk <i>with</i> me. -I irritated her; she bored me.</p> - -<p>How rarely in our country do you find a woman -who is an interesting companion for a man, except as -female and male pair or survey the prospect of pairing? -And it matters not what line of activity the man -is taking—business, politics, literature, art, philanthropy -even. The women are eternally talking about -their superiority to the business man; but do they get -along any better with an artist—unless he is cultivating -the woman for the sake of an order for a picture? Is -there any line of serious endeavor in which an American -woman is interesting and helpful and companionable to -a man? I can get along very well with an artist. I -have one friend who is a writer of novels, another who -is a writer of plays, a third who is a sculptor. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span> -are interested in my work, and I in theirs. We talk -together on a basis of equal interest, and we give each -other ideas. Can any American woman say the same? -I don’t inquire anticipating a negative answer. I simply -put the question. But I suspect the answer would -put a pin in the bubble of the American woman’s pretense -of superior culture. She is fooled by her vanity, -I fear, and by her sex attraction, and by the influence -of the money her despised father or husband gives her. -There’s a reason why America is notoriously the land -of bachelor husbands—and that reason is not the one -the women and foreign fortune hunters assert. The -American man lets the case go by default against him, -not because he couldn’t answer, nor yet because he is -polite, but <i>because he is indifferent</i>.</p> - -<p>But my wife was talking about her projected assault -upon New York. “I really must be an extraordinary -woman,” said she. “How I have fought all these years -to raise myself, with you dragging at me to keep me -down.”</p> - -<p>“I?” protested her unhappy husband. “Why, -dear, I’ve never opposed you in any way. And I’ve -tried to do what I could to help you. You must admit -the money’s been useful.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you’ve never been mean about money,” conceded -she. “But you don’t sympathize with a single -one of my ideals.”</p> - -<p>“I want you to have whatever you want,” said I. -“And anything I can do to get it for you, or to help -you get it, I stand ready to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know, Godfrey, dear,” said she, giving me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span> -a long hug and a kiss. “No woman ever had a more -generous husband than I have.”</p> - -<p>I naturally attached more importance to this burst -of enthusiasm then than I do now. And it is as well -that I was thus simple-minded. How little pleasure we -would get, to be sure, if, when we are praised or loved -by anybody because we do that person a kindness, we -paused to analyze and saw the shallow selfishness of -such praise or such love. After all, it’s only human -nature to like those who do as we ask them and to dislike -those who don’t; and I am not quarreling with human -nature—or with any other of the unchangeable conditions -of the universe. My own love for Edna—what -was it but the natural result of my getting what I -wanted from her, all I wanted? I really troubled myself -little about her incompetence and extravagance and -craze for social position. No doubt to this day I should -be— But I am again anticipating.</p> - -<p>“Generous? Nonsense,” said I. “It isn’t generous -to try to make you happy. That’s my one chance -of being happy myself. A busy man’s got to have -peace at home. If he hasn’t he’s like a soldier attacked -rear and front at the same time.”</p> - -<p>“I know you don’t care where we live,” she went on. -“And for Margot’s sake we’ve simply got to move to -New York.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you want her to stay at home of nights, instead -of living at the school. Why didn’t you speak of -that first?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” cried she. “How slow you are! No; -for the present, even if we do live in New York, I think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[63]</span> -it best for Margot to keep on living at the school. She’s -barely started there. I want her training to be thorough. -And while I’m learning as fast as I can, I am -not competent to teach her. I know, of course. But I -haven’t had the chance to practice. So I can’t teach -her.”</p> - -<p>“Teach her what?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“To be a lady—a practical, expert lady,” replied -Edna. “That’s what she’s going to Miss Ryper’s -school for. And when she comes out she’ll be the equal -of girls who have generations of culture and breeding -behind them.”</p> - -<p>“God bless me!” cried I, laughing. “This Ryper -woman must be a wonder.”</p> - -<p>“She is,” declared Edna. “It was a great favor, -her letting Margot into the school.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I remember,” said I. “She couldn’t do it -until I got two of the directors of the road to insist -on it. But I guess that was merely a bluff of hers to -squeeze us for a few hundreds extra.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” Edna assured me. “You are <i>so</i> ignorant, -Godfrey. Please do be careful not to say those -coarse things before people.”</p> - -<p>“As you please,” said I, cheerfully, for I was used -to this kind of calling down. “All the same, the Ryper -lady is hot for the dough.”</p> - -<p>Edna shivered. She detested slang—continued to -detest and avoid it even after she learned that it was -fashionable. “Miss Ryper guards her list of pupils as -their mothers guard their visiting lists,” said she. “But -now she likes Margot. The dear child has been elected<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span> -to the most exclusive fraternity. Every girl in it has -to wear hand-made underclothes and has to have had -at least a father, a grandfather, and a great grandfather.” -Edna laughed with pride at her own cleverness -before she went on. “Margot came to me when -she was proposed, and cried as if her little heart would -break. She said she didn’t know anything about her -grandfather and great grandfather. But I hadn’t forgotten -to arrange that. I think of everything.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that was easy enough,” said I. “Your grandfather -was a tailor and mine was in the grocery business -like father.”</p> - -<p>Edna looked round in terror. “Sh!” she exclaimed. -“Servants always listen.” She went to the door—we -were in the small upstairs sitting room—opened it suddenly, -looked into the hall, closed the door, and returned -to a chair nearer the lounge on which I was stretched -comfortably smoking.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?” said I.</p> - -<p>“No one was there,” said she. “Haven’t I told you -never to speak of—of those horrible things?”</p> - -<p>“But Margot——”</p> - -<p>“Margot doesn’t know. She must <i>never</i> know! -Poor child, she is so sensitive, it would make her ill.”</p> - -<p>I lapsed into gloomy silence. I had not liked the -way Edna had been acting about her parents and mine -ever since we came to Brooklyn. But I had been busy, -and was averse to meddling.</p> - -<p>“I gave Margot for the benefit of the girls a genealogy -I’ve gotten up,” she went on. “You know all -genealogies are more or less faked, and I’ve no doubt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span> -hers is every bit as genuine as those of half the girls -over there. I fixed ours so that it would take a lot of -inquiry to expose it. And Margot got into the fraternity.”</p> - -<p>“Are the hand-made underclothes fake too?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. <i>They</i> had to be genuine. I’ve never let -Margot wear any other kind since I learned about those -things. There’s nothing that gives a child such a sense -of ladylikeness and superiority as to feel she’s dressed -right from the skin out.”</p> - -<p>“Well, school’s a different sort of a place from what -it was in our day,” said I. The picture my wife had -drawn amused me, but I somehow did not exactly like it. -My mind was too little interested in the direction of the -things that absorbed Edna for me to be able to put into -any sort of shape the thoughts vaguely moving about -in the shadows. “I’ll bet,” I went on, “poor Margot -doesn’t have as good a time as we had.”</p> - -<p>“She’d hate that kind of a time,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>I laughed and laid my hand in her lap. Her hand -stole into it. I watched her lovely face—the sweet, -dreamy expression. “What are you thinking?” said I -softly, hopeful of romance—what <i>I</i> call romance.</p> - -<p>“I was thinking how low and awful we used to be,” -replied she, “and how splendidly we are getting away -from it.”</p> - -<p>I laughed, for I was used to cold water on my romance. -“All the same,” insisted I, “Margot would -envy us if she knew.”</p> - -<p>“She’d hate it,” Edna repeated. “She’s going to -be an improvement on <i>us</i>.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>“Not on you,” I protested.</p> - -<p>She looked at me with tender sparkling eyes, the -same lovely light-brown eyes that had fascinated me as -a boy. Brown eyes for a woman, always! But they -must not be of the heavy commonplace shades of brown -like a deer’s or a cow’s. They must have light shades -in them, tints verging toward blue or green. Said -Edna: “I’m doing my best to fit myself. And before I -get through, Godfrey, I think I’ll go far.”</p> - -<p>“Sure you will,” said I, with no disposition to turn -the cold douche on <i>her</i> kind of romance. What an idiot -I was about her, to be sure! I went on: “And I’ll see -that you have the money to grease the toboggan slide -and make the going easy.”</p> - -<p>She talked on happily and confidingly: “Yes, it’s -best to leave Margot another year as a boarder at Miss -Ryper’s. By that time we’ll be established over in New -York, and we’ll have a proper place for her to receive -her friends. And perhaps we’ll have a few friends of -our own.”</p> - -<p>“Swell friends, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t say swell, dear,” corrected she. “It’s -such a common word.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve heard <i>you</i> say it,” I protested.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t any more. I’ve learned better. And -now I’ve taught you better.”</p> - -<p>“Anything you like. Anybody you like,” said I. -When Edna and I were together, with our hands clasped, -I was always completely under her spell. She could do -what she pleased with me, so long, of course, as she -didn’t interfere in my end of the firm. And I may add<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span> -that she never did; she hadn’t the faintest notion what -I was about. They say there are thousands of American -women in the cities who know their husbands’ places -of business only as street and telephone numbers. My -wife was one of that kind. Oh, yes, from the standpoint -of those who insist that business and home should be -separate, we were a model couple.</p> - -<p>“There’s another matter I want to talk over with -you, Godfrey,” she went on.</p> - -<p>“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” said I. -“It goes so well with your skin and your hair.”</p> - -<p>She was delighted, and was moved to rise and look -at herself in the long mirror. She gave herself an approving -glance, but not more approving than what she -saw merited. A long, slim beautiful figure; a dress that -set it off. A lovely young tip-tilted face, the face of a -girl with fresh, clear eyes and skin, the whitest, evenest -sharp teeth—and such hair!—such quantities of hair -attractively arranged.</p> - -<p>From herself she glanced at me. “No one’d ever -think what we came from, would they?” said she fondly -and proudly. “Oh, Godfrey, it makes me so happy -that we <i>look</i> the part. We belong where we’re going. -The good blood away back in the family is coming out. -And Margot— I’ve always called her the little duchess—and -she looks it and feels it.” Dreamily, “Maybe -she will be some day.”</p> - -<p>“Why, she’s a baby,” cried I. For I didn’t like to -see that my baby was growing up.</p> - -<p>“She’s nearly fourteen,” said Edna. She was looking -at herself again. “Would you ever think <i>I</i> had a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span> -daughter fourteen years old?” said she, making a -laughing, saucy face at me.</p> - -<p>I got up and kissed her. “You don’t look as old -as you did when I married you,” said I, and it was only a -slight exaggeration.</p> - -<p>When we sat again, she was snuggled into my lap -with her head against my shoulder. She was immensely -fond of being petted. They say this is no sign of a -loving nature, that cats, the least loving of all pets, are -fondest of petting. I have no opinion on the subject.</p> - -<p>“What was it you wanted to talk about?” said I. -“Money?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” laughed she.</p> - -<p>“I supposed so, as that’s the only matter in which -I have any influence in this family.”</p> - -<p>“Come to think of it,” said she, “it <i>is</i> money—in -a way. It’s about—our parents.” She gave a deep -sigh. “Godfrey, they hang over me like a nightmare!”</p> - -<p>Her tragic seriousness amused me. “Oh, cheer up,” -said I, kissing her. “They certainly don’t fit in with -our stylishness. But they’re away off there in Passaic, -and bother us as little as we bother them. The truth -is, Edna, we’ve not acted right. We’ve been selfish—spending -all our prosperity on ourselves. Of course, -they’ve got everything they really want, but—well——”</p> - -<p>“That’s exactly it,” said she eagerly. “My conscience -has been hurting me. We ought to—to— It -wouldn’t cost much to make them perfectly comfortable—so -they’d not have to work—and could get away -from the grocery—and the—and the”—she hesitated -before saying “father’s business,” as if nerving herself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span> -to pronounce words of shame. And when she did -finally force out the evading “father’s business,” it -was with such an accent that I couldn’t help laughing -outright.</p> - -<p>“Undertaking’s a good-paying business,” said I. -“We certainly ought to be grateful to it. It supplied -the eight thousand dollars that gave me the chance to -buy half the rolling mill. And you know the rolling -mill was the start of our fortune.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think father could be induced to retire?” -she asked.</p> - -<p>“Never,” said I. “Your father’s a rich man, for -Passaic. He’s got two hundred thousand at least hived -away in tenements that pay from twenty to thirty-five -per cent. And his business now brings in ten to fifteen -thousand a year straight along.”</p> - -<p>“You can make <i>your</i> father retire?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “Poor dad! I’ve been keeping him from -being retired by the sheriff. He’s squeezing out a bare -living. He’d be delighted to stop and have all his time -for talking politics and religion.”</p> - -<p>“You could buy them a nice place a little way out -in the country, on some quiet road. I’m sure your -mother and your old maid sister would love it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said I. “If it wasn’t <i>too</i> quiet.”</p> - -<p>“But it must be quiet. And we’ll induce my father -and mother to buy a place near by.”</p> - -<p>“Your father’ll not give up the business.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve thought it all out,” said Edna, whose mind -was equal to whatever task she gave it. “You must -get some one to offer him a price he simply can’t refuse,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span> -and make a condition that he shall not go into business -again. Aren’t those things done?”</p> - -<p>I was somewhat surprised, but not much, at the -knowledge of business this displayed. “Why!—Why!” -laughed I. “And you pretend to know nothing about -business!”</p> - -<p>She was in a sensible, loving mood that day. So she -said with a quiet little laugh: “I make it a point to -know anything that’s useful to me. I don’t know much -about business. Why should I bother with it? I’ve -got confidence in you.”</p> - -<p>It was not the first time I had got a peep into her -mind and had seen how she looked on everyone, including -me, as a wheel in her machine, and never interfered -unless the wheel didn’t work to suit her. I laughed -delightedly. There was something charmingly feminine, -thought I, about this point of view so upside down. -“Yes, I guess your father’ll jump for the bait you -suggest,” said I. “But why disturb him? He loves -his undertaking.”</p> - -<p>She shivered.</p> - -<p>“And he’ll be miserable idling about.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I guess he’ll get along all right,” said she, -with sarcasm and with truth. “He’ll devote himself to -suing his tenants and counting his money.... Godfrey, -you simply must get those people in Passaic out -of our way. I’ve been a little nervous over here, though -I knew that none of these dreadful people we associate -with has anything better in the way of family than us, -and some have a lot worse. Oh, it’s <i>frightful</i> to have -parents one’s ashamed of!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>I think I blushed. I’m sure I looked away to avoid -seeing her expression. “It’s frightful to be ashamed -of one’s parents,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Now don’t be hypocritical,” cried she. “You -know perfectly well you are ashamed of your parents, -as I am of mine.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll admit,” said I, “that if they showed up at the -office, I’d be a bit upset and would feel apologetic. -But I’m ashamed of myself for feeling that way.”</p> - -<p>“If you only realized about things,” said she, which -was her phrase for hitting at me as lacking in refined -instincts, “you’d not be ashamed of yourself, but would -frankly suffer. They are a disgrace to us.”</p> - -<p>“They’re honest people, well meaning, and as good -as the best in every essential way,” said I. “Believe -me, Edna, the fault isn’t in them. It’s in us. Suppose -you found some day that Margot was ashamed of you -and me.”</p> - -<p>“But she’ll not be,” retorted Edna. “I for one will -see to it that she has no cause to be anything but -proud.”</p> - -<p>I couldn’t but admit that there were two sides to -the problem of our parents. It was shameful to be -ashamed of them. But it was also human. I couldn’t—and -can’t—utterly damn in Edna a fault, a vulgar -weakness, I myself had, and almost everyone I knew. -No doubt, gentle reader, you are scandalized and disgusted. -But one of my objects in relating this whole -story is to scandalize and to disgust you. You have -had too much consideration at the hands of writers—you -and your hypocritical virtues and your hysterical<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span> -nerves. If you are an American, you are probably far -in advance of your parents in worldly knowledge, in -education, in every way except perhaps manly and -womanly self-respect. For along with your progress -has come an infection of snobbishness and toadyism -that seems in some mysterious way inseparable from -higher civilization. So be shocked and disgusted with -Edna and me, and don’t turn your hypocritical eyes -inward on your own secret thoughts and actions about -your own humble parents. Above all, don’t learn from -this horrifying episode a decenter mode of thinking and -feeling—<i>and</i> acting.</p> - -<p>“We must get them out of the way before we move -to New York,” said Edna. “Ever since Margot began -at Mrs. Ryper’s I’ve been on pins and needles. You -don’t know how malicious fashionable people are. Why, -some of them who have nothing to do might at any time -run out to Passaic and see for themselves.”</p> - -<p>Edna was sitting up in my lap, gazing at me with -wide harassed-looking eyes. I burst out laughing. -“They might take a camera along, and get some snapshots,” -I suggested.</p> - -<p>Edna’s face contracted with horror and her form -grew limp and weak. “My God!” she cried. “So -they might. Godfrey, we must attend to it at once.”</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">III</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> never been able to come to a satisfactory -verdict as to the intelligence of the human race. Is it -stupid, or is it, rather, sluggish? Is it unable to think, -or does it refuse to think? Does it believe the follies -it pretends to believe and usually acts upon, or is it -the victim of its own willful prejudices and hypocrisies? -Never have I decided that a certain man or woman was -practically witless, but that he or she has confounded -me by saying or doing something indicating shrewdness -or even wisdom.</p> - -<p>The women are especially difficult to judge. Take -Edna, for example.</p> - -<p>It was impossible to interest her in anything worth -while. But as to the things in which she was interested, -none could have thought more clearly or keenly, -or could have acted with more vigor and effect. I have -often made serious blunders—inexcusable blunders—in -managing my own affairs. To go no further, my -management of my family would have convicted me of -imbecility before any court not made up of good-natured, -indifferent, woman-worshiping, woman-despising -American husbands. Yes, I have made the stupidest -blunders in all creation. But I cannot recall a single -notable blunder made by Edna in the matters which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span> -alone she deemed worthy of her attention. She decided -what she wanted. She moved upon it by the best route, -whether devious or direct or a combination of the two. -And she always got it.</p> - -<p>You may say her success was due to the fact that -her objects were trivial. But if you will think a moment, -you will appreciate that a thing’s triviality does -not necessarily make it easy to attain. As much energy -and skill may be shown in winning a sham battle as in -winning a real. Still, I suppose minds are cast in molds -of various sizes, and one cast in a small mold can deal -only with the small. And I guess that, from whatever -cause, the minds of women are of diverse kinds of smaller -molds. Perhaps this is the result of bad education. -Perhaps better education will correct it. I do not -know. I can speak only of what is—of Edna as she is -and always has been.</p> - -<p>Having made up her mind to fell the genealogical -tree, that an artificial one might be stood up in its place, -she lost no time in getting into action.</p> - -<p>It was on the Sunday following our talk—the earliest -possible day—that she took me for the first visit -we had made our parents in nearly three years. We had -sent them presents. We had written them letters. We -had received painfully composed and ungrammatical replies—these -received both for Edna and myself at my -office, because she feared the servants would pry into -periodically arriving exhibits of illiteracy. We had -written them of coming and bringing Margot with us. -We had received suggestions of their coming to see us, -which Edna had evaded by such excuses as that we were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span> -moving or that she or Margot was not well or that the -cook had abruptly deserted. The world outside Passaic -was a vague place to our old fathers and mothers. Their -own immediate affairs kept them busy. So with no sense -of deliberate alienation on their side and small and -mildly intermittent sense of it on our side, the months -and the years passed without our seeing one another.</p> - -<p>Edna announced to me the intended visit only an -hour before we started. It was a habit of hers—a -clever habit, too—never to take anyone into her confidence -about her plans until the right moment—that is, -the moment when execution was so near at hand that -discussion would seem futile. At a quarter before nine -on that Sunday morning she said:</p> - -<p>“Don’t dress for church. This is a good day to -make that trip to Passaic.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll go by Miss Ryper’s for Margot,” said I. -“How the old people will stare when they see her!”</p> - -<p>Edna looked at me as if I had suddenly uncovered -unmistakable evidence of my insanity. Then I who had -clean forgot her foolish notions remembered. “But -why not?” I urged. “It will give them so much -pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“Trash!” ejaculated she. “They don’t care a rap -about her. They can’t, as they’ve not seen her since -she was a baby. And Margot would suffer horribly. -I think it would be wicked to give a sweet, happy young -girl a horrible shock.”</p> - -<p>This grotesque view of the effect of the sight of -grandparents upon a grandchild struck me as amusing. -But there was no echo of my laughter in the disgusted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span> -face of my wife. I sobered and said: “Yes, it would -give her a shock. We’ve made a mistake, bringing her -up in that way.”</p> - -<p>“Too late to discuss it now,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” I could not but agree. “I guess the -mischief’s done beyond repair.”</p> - -<p>Said Edna: “Have you any sense of—of them being -<i>your</i> father and mother?”</p> - -<p>“Rather,” said I. “My childhood is very vivid to -me, and not at all disagreeable.”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me like a bad dream—unreal, and to -be forgotten as quickly as I can.”</p> - -<p>She said this with a fine, spiritual look in her eyes, -and I must say that Edna, refined, delicately beautiful, -fashionably dressed, speaking her English with an elegant -accent, did not suggest fusty-dusty, queer-looking -Weeping Willie with his hearse and funeral coaches, his -embalming apparatus and general appearance of animated -casket, nor yet fat, sloppy Ma Wheatlands, always -in faded wrappers and with holes cut in her shoes -for her bunions.</p> - -<p>“Wear your oldest business suit,” said Edna, coming -back to earth from the contemplation of her own -elevation and grandeur. “I shall dress as quietly as I -dare. We mustn’t arouse the suspicions of the servants.”</p> - -<p>Edna’s fooleries amused me. I didn’t then appreciate -the dangers of tolerating and laughing at the bad -habits of a fascinating child. If I had, little good I’d -have accomplished, I suspect. However, I got myself -up as Edna directed, and when I saw how it irritated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span> -her I stopped making such remarks as: “Shall I wear -a collar? Hadn’t I better sneak out the back way and -join you at the ferry?” I should have liked to get -some fun out of our doings; that would have taken at -least the saw edge off my feelings of self-contempt. I -am not fond of hypocrisy, yet for that one occasion I -should have welcomed the familiar human shamming and -faking in such matters. But Edna would put the thing -through like one of her father’s funerals. As we, in -what was practically disguise, issued forth, she said -loudly enough for the cocking ear of a maid who chanced -to be in the front hall:</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, the country dust won’t spoil these -clothes. I’m so glad it’s clear. How charming the -woods will look.”</p> - -<p>Just enough to deceive. Edna expanded upon her -cleverness in never saying too much, because saying too -much always started people, especially servants, to -thinking. But she abruptly checked her flow of self-praise -as we seated ourselves in the ferry and she looked -about. There, not a dozen seats away, loomed our -cook! Yes, no mistake, it was our Mary, “gotten up -regardless” for a Sunday outing.</p> - -<p>“Do you see Mary?” said my wife.</p> - -<p>“She’s the most conspicuous female in sight,” said -I. “She’s a credit to us.”</p> - -<p>“I must have been mad,” groaned Edna, “to give -her a holiday! Always the way. I never do a generous, -kind-hearted thing that I don’t have to pay for it.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t follow you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“She hates us,” explained Edna. “Cooks—Irish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span> -cooks—invariably hate the families they draw wages -from. She’s dogging us.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said I. “She probably hasn’t even -seen us.”</p> - -<p>But Edna was not listening; she was contriving. -“We must let her leave the boat ahead of us. Pretend -not to see her.”</p> - -<p>I obeyed orders. In the Jersey City train shed we, -lagging behind, saw her take a train bound for a different -destination from ours. Much relieved, Edna led -the way to the Passaic train. Hardly were we seated -when in at the door of the coach hurried our Mary, -excited and blown. She came beaming down the aisle. -Edna saluted her graciously and calmly.</p> - -<p>“I got in the wrong train,” said Mary. “It’d -never have took me nowheres near my cousin in -Passaic.”</p> - -<p>Edna’s composure was admirable. Said I, when -Mary had passed on, “Now what, my dear?”</p> - -<p>“You see she <i>is</i> dogging us,” replied Edna. “I’ve -not a doubt she knows all about us.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t <i>think</i> she’s got a camera,” said I. “Still, -they make them very small nowadays.”</p> - -<p>“We shall have to go on in the train, and return -home from the station beyond,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“Do as you like,” said I. “But as for me, I get -off at Passaic and go to see the old folks.”</p> - -<p>“Please stop your joking,” said Edna. “If you -had any pride you couldn’t joke.”</p> - -<p>“I am serious,” said I. “I shall go to see mother -and father.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>“No doubt her cousin lives in the same part of the -slums,” said Edna. “Oh, it is <i>hideous</i>!”</p> - -<p>I don’t know what possessed me—whether a fit of -indigestion and obstinacy or a sudden access of sense -of decency as I approached my old home. Whatever -it was, it moved me to say: “My dear, this nonsense -has gone far enough. We will do what we set out -to do.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll drop off at Passaic alone, and hire a -trap, and give Mary a seat in it as far as her cousin’s. -I’m not proud of my parents, the more shame to me. -But there’s a limit to my ability to degrade myself.”</p> - -<p>Edna and I had not lived together all those years -without her learning the tone I use when I will not be -trifled with. She did not argue. She sat silent and pale -beside me. When the train stopped at Passaic she followed -me from the car. Mary descended ahead of us -and moved off at as brisk a pace as tight corsets and -stiff new shoes would permit, in a direction exactly opposite -that we were to take.</p> - -<p>“Aren’t you glad we didn’t go on?” said I, eager -to make it up.</p> - -<p>She made no reply. She maintained haughty and -injured silence until we were within sight of the houses. -Then she said curtly:</p> - -<p>“I’ll do the talking about our plans for them.”</p> - -<p>“That’ll be best,” said I, most conciliatory.</p> - -<p>I had not intended to say this. There had been a -half-formed resolution in my mind to oppose those plans. -But her anger roused in me such a desire to pacify her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span> -that I promptly yielded, where, I must in honesty confess, -I was little short of indifferent. American husbands -have the reputation of being the most docile and -the worst henpecked men in the world. All foreigners -say so, and our women believe it. In fact, nothing -could be further from the truth. The docility of American -husbands is the good nature of indifference. A -friend of mine has the habit of saying that his most -valued and most valuable possession is his long list of -things he cares not a rap about. It is a typically -American and luminous remark. The men of other -nations agitate over trifles, love to have the sense of -being master at home—usually their one and only -chance for a free swing at the joyous feeling of being -boss. The American man, absorbed in his important -work at office or factory, and not caring especially -about anything else, lets thieving politicians rule in -public affairs, lets foolish, incompetent women rule -in domestic affairs. He has a half-conscious philosophy -that he is shrewd enough, if he attends to his -business, to make money faster than they can take it -away from him, and that, if he does not attend to his -business only, he will have nothing either for thieving -politician and spendthrift wife or for himself. If you -wish to discover how little there is in the notion of his -docility, meddle with something he really cares about. -Many a political rascal, many a shiftless wife, has done -it and has gotten a highly disagreeable surprise.</p> - -<p>Perhaps what I saw had as much to do with my -tame acquiescence in my wife’s projects as my desire -to have peace between her and me, when peace meant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span> -yielding what only a vague and feeble filial impulse -moved me to contest. I had what I thought was a clear -and vivid memory of my natal place and Edna’s—how -the two houses looked, how small and shabby they were, -how mean their surroundings, how plain their interiors. -But as we drove up I discovered that memory had been -pleasantly deceiving me. Could these squalid hovels, -these tiny, hideous boxes set in two dismal weedy oblongs -of unkempt yards—could these be our old homes? And -the bent old laboring man and his wife—we had drawn -up in front of my home—could they be <i>my</i> father and -<i>my</i> mother?</p> - -<p>A feeling of sickness, of nausea came over me. Not -from repulsion for my parents—thank God, I had not -sunk that low. But from abhorrence of myself, so degraded -by the “higher world” into which prosperity -and Edna’s ambitions had dragged me that I could -look down upon the gentle old man and the patient, loving -old woman to whom I owed life and a fair start in -the world. My blood burned and my eyes sank as they -greeted me, their homely old hands trembling, their -mouths distorted by emotion and age and missing teeth. -I turned away while they were kissing Edna, for I felt -I should hate her and loathe myself if I saw the expression -that must be in her face.</p> - -<p>“There are my father and mother!” she cried in a -suffocating voice. And we three Lorings were watching -her hurry across the yard and through the gap in the -fence between the two places. My sister came forward. -We kissed each other as awkwardly as two strangers. I -looked at her dazedly. Mary, our cook, was an imposing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span> -looking lady beside this thin-haired, coarse-featured -old maid. In embarrassed silence we four entered the -house. I am not tall nor in the least fat, yet I had an -uncontrollable impulse to stoop and to squeeze as I -entered the squat and narrow doorway. That miserable -little “parlor!”</p> - -<p>As we sat silent my roving glance at last sought my -mother’s face. Oh, the faces, the masks, with which -freakish and so often savagely ironic fate covers and -hides our souls, making fair seem foul and foul seem -fair, making beauty repellent and ugliness seem beautiful. -Suddenly through that plain, time- and toil-scarred -mask, through those dim, sunken eyes, I saw -her soul—her mother’s heart—looking at me. And the -tears poured into my eyes. “Mother!” I sobbed in a -choking voice, and I put my arms round her and nestled -against her heart, a boy again—a bad boy with a streak -of good in him. I felt how proud she—they all—were -of me, the son and brother, who had gone forth and fulfilled -the universal American dream of getting up in -the world. I hoped, I prayed that they would not realize -what a poor creature I was, with my snobbish -shame.</p> - -<p>There was an awkward, rambling attempt at talk. -But we had nothing to talk about—nothing in common. -I happened to think of our not having brought Margot; -how shameful it was, yet how glad I felt, and how self-contemptuous -for being glad. To break that awful -silence I enlarged upon Margot—her beauty, her cleverness.</p> - -<p>“She must be like Polly”—my sister’s name was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span> -Polly—“like Polly was at her age,” observed my -mother.</p> - -<p>I looked at Polly Ann, in whose faded face and -withered form—faded and withered though she was not -yet forty, was in fact but seven or eight years older than -I. Like Polly! I could speak no more of Margot, the -delicate loveliness of a rare, carefully reared hot-house -exotic. Yes, exotic; for the girls and the women -brought up in the super-refinements of prosperous class -silliness seem foreign to this world—and are.</p> - -<p>A few minutes that seemed hours, and Edna came -in, her father and mother limping and hobbling in her -train. Edna was sickly pale and her eyelids refused to -rise. I shook hands with old Willie Wheatlands, hesitated, -then kissed the fat, sallow, swinging cheek of my -mother-in-law. Said Edna in a hard, forced voice:</p> - -<p>“I’ve explained that Margot isn’t well and that -we’ve got to get back——”</p> - -<p>“Mercy me!” cried my mother. “Ain’t you going -to stay to supper?”</p> - -<p>Supper! It was only half-past twelve. Supper -could not be until five or half-past. We had been there -half an hour and already conversation was exhausted -and time had become motionless.</p> - -<p>“We intended to,” said Edna. “But Margot wasn’t -at all well when we left. We simply can’t stay away -long. We’d not have come, but we felt we’d never get -here if we kept on letting things interfere.”</p> - -<p>“You didn’t leave Margy <i>alone</i>?” demanded Edna’s -mother.</p> - -<p>“Almost,” said Edna. “Only a—a servant.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>“Oh, you keep a nurse girl, too,” said Polly. “I -thought Edna didn’t look as if she did any of her own -work.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have a—a girl, in addition to the cook,” -replied Edna, flushing as she thus denied three of her -five servants—flushing not because of the denial, but -because in her confession she had almost forgotten -about the numerous excuses based on the cook. “Godfrey -has been doing very well, and we felt we could -afford it.”</p> - -<p>“Better get rid of her,” advised old Willie sourly. -“And of the cook, too. Servant girls is mighty wasteful.”</p> - -<p>“And she’ll teach Margy badness,” said my mother. -“Them servants is full of poison. Even if yer pa’d had -money I’d never have allowed no servant round my children, -no more’n a snake in the cradle. I hope she’s a -good Christian, and not a Catholic?”</p> - -<p>“She’s all right,” declared Edna nervously. “But -we’ll have to be going soon.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; that there girl might git drunk,” said Mrs. -Wheatlands.</p> - -<p>“And set fire to the house maybe,” said my mother. -“I heard of a case just last week.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you hadn’t said that,” cried Edna, her tones -of protest more like jubilation. “I’ll be wretched until -I’m home again.”</p> - -<p>Mother told in detail and with rising excitement the -story of the drunken nurse girl who had burned up herself -and her charges, a pair of lovely twins. From that -moment our families were anxious for us to go. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span> -three women could see the girl drunk and the house -burning. The two grandfathers, while less imaginative, -were almost as uneasy. Besides, no doubt our families -found us full as tiring as we found them.</p> - -<p>“But before we go,” said Edna, in a business-like -tone, “there’s one thing we wanted to talk about. Godfrey -has had—that is, he has done very well in business. -And of course our first thought—one of our first -thoughts—was what could we do for you all down here. -We hate to think of your living in this unhealthful part -of the town. We want to see you settled in some healthful -place, up in the hills.”</p> - -<p>We were watching the faces of our five kinsfolk. -We could make nothing of their expression. It was -heavy, dull—mere listening, without a hint of even comprehension -behind.</p> - -<p>“We thought you, father, and Mr.—father Loring—might -look round and find a nice farm with a big -comfortable house—plenty big enough for you all—and -Godfrey will buy it, and will pay for a man and a woman -to look after you. He has done well, as I said, and he -can afford it. In fact, they’ve made him president of -the railroad.”</p> - -<p>My father, my mother, and my sister exchanged -glances. A long, awed silence. Old Willie spoke in his -squeaky, stingy voice: “I can’t leave my business. I -ain’t footless like Loring there. <i>My</i> business pays.”</p> - -<p>“You can sell it,” said Edna. “You know you -ought to retire. You were telling me how bad your -health had been.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody else couldn’t make nothing like what I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span> -make out of it. The men growing up nowadays ain’t no -account. The no-account women with heads full of foolishness -leads ’em off.”</p> - -<p>Edna agreed with him, pointed out that he’d have -to give up soon anyhow, appealed to his cupidity for -real estate by expanding upon the size and value of the -farm I was willing to give him. She made a strong impression. -The women were converted by the prospect -of having help with the work. My father had long -dreamed of a home in the country. He had not the -imagination to picture how he would be bored, away -from the loafers with whom he talked politics and religion. -“And,” said Edna, “you’ll have horses and -things to ride in, so you can go where you please whenever -you please.”</p> - -<p>We had roused them. We had dazzled them. It -was plain that if a purchaser could be found for the -Wheatlands undertaking business, Edna would carry her -point. “Godfrey will look for somebody to take the -business,” said she to her father. “I want you and -Father Loring to start out to-morrow morning, and not -stop till you’ve found a farm.”</p> - -<p>I understood an uncertain gleam in old Willie’s eyes. -“About the price,” said I, speaking for the first time, -“I’m willing to pay twenty-five thousand down for the -place alone, and as I’ll pay cash, you ought to be able -on mortgage to get a farm—or two or three adjoining -farms—that would cost twice that.”</p> - -<p>The two families were dumbfounded.</p> - -<p>“I know I can trust you, Mr. Wheatlands, to get -the money’s worth.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>“Buy a big place,” said Edna, of the unexpected -timely shrewdnesses. “Go back from the main roads -where land’s so dear.”</p> - -<p>Wheatlands nodded. “That’s a good idea,” said he. -“There’ll be plenty of roads after a while.”</p> - -<p>Edna was ready to depart. “Then it’s settled?” -said she.</p> - -<p>Her father nodded. “I’m willing to see what can -be done. But I’d rather not have Ben Loring along. -He’d interfere with a good bargain.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you go alone, Willie,” said my father. -“Anyhow, I’ve got to ’tend store. I can’t afford a -boy any more.”</p> - -<p>The mention of the, to them, enormous sum of money -had put them in a state of awe as to Edna and me. It -saddened me to observe how quickly the weed of snobbishness, -whose seeds are in all human nature, sprang up -and dominated the whole garden. They lost the sense -of our blood kinship with them. They felt that we, able -to dispense such splendid largess, were of a superior -order of being. And I saw that my and Edna’s feeling -of strangeness toward them was intimacy beside the -feeling of strangeness toward us which they now had. -In my dealings with my fellow beings I have often noted -this sort of thing—that the snobbishness of those who -look down is a weak and hesitating impulse which would -soon die out but for the encouragement it gets from the -snobbishness of those who look up. I read somewhere, -“Caste is made by those who look up, not by those who -look down.” That is a great truth, and like most great, -simple, obvious truths is usually overlooked.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>Looking back I see that my own first decisive impulse -toward the caste feeling came that day, came when my -people and Edna’s, discovering that we were rich, began -to treat us as lower class treats upper class.</p> - -<p>My mother had been scrutinizing me for signs of -the majesty of wealth. “Why don’t you wear a beard, -or leastways a mustache, Godfrey?” she finally inquired. -“Then you wouldn’t seem so boyish like.”</p> - -<p>“I used to wear a mustache,” said I, “but I cut it -off because—I don’t recall why.”</p> - -<p>In fact I did recall. I noted one day that I had a -good mouth and better teeth than most men have. And -it came to me how absurd it was to hang a bunch of -hair from my upper lip to trail in the soup and to -embalm the odors of past cigars for the discomfort of -my nose. Edna kept after me for a time to let it grow -again. But reading in some novel she regarded as -authoritative that mustaches were “common,” she desisted. -And I found my boyish appearance highly useful. -It led men to underestimate me—a signal advantage -in the contests of wit against wit in which I daily -engaged with a view to wrenching a fortune for myself -away from my fellow men.</p> - -<p>My mother went on to urge me to make my face -look older and more formidable. Now that she had -learned what a grand person I was she feared others -would not realize it. Edna, who, as I have said, was -shrewdness personified where her own interests were involved, -immediately saw the dangerous bearings of this -newly aroused vanity of our kin. “I forgot to caution -you,” said she, “not to mention our prosperity. If we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span> -were talked about now, it might be lost entirely. The -only reason Godfrey and I came to you so soon with -the news of it was because we wanted to do something -for you right away. And we knew we could trust you -not to get us into trouble. Don’t talk about us. If -you hear people talking, if they ask you questions, pretend -you don’t understand and don’t know. You see, -it may be spies from our enemies.”</p> - -<p>One glance round that circle of eager faces was -enough to convince that Edna had made precisely the -impression she desired. I could see that my mother -and old Weeping Willie, the shrewd of the five—the two -to whom Edna and I owed most by inheritance—were -prepared to deny knowing us if that would aid in safeguarding -the precious prosperity. My father and sister -were obviously disappointed that they could not go -about boasting of our magnificence and getting from -the neighbors the envy and respect due the near relations -of a plutocrat. But there was no danger of their -being indiscreet; Edna could breathe freely. And when -the two families were tucked away in the midst of a -large and secluded farm, she could tell what genealogical -stories she pleased without fear of being confounded by -the truth.</p> - -<p>By three o’clock we were back in Brooklyn. Edna -felt and looked triumphant. The crowning of the day’s -work had been small but significant. A heavy rain -storm that came up while we were on the way back -must have made the servants think we had cut short -our woodland outing. As we were going to bed that -might Edna roused herself from deep study and broke<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span> -a long silence with, “I hesitated whether to tell them -you had become president of the road.”</p> - -<p>I had noted that seeming slip of hers, so unlike her -cautious reticence.</p> - -<p>“Then I remembered they’d be sure to see it in the -papers,” continued she. “And I decided it was best to -tell and quiet them.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>While the old folks were industriously settling themselves -in the New Jersey woods— Here let me relieve -my mind by saying a few words in mitigation of the -unfilial and snobbish conduct of Edna and me. I admit -we deserve nothing but condemnation. I admit I am -more to blame than she because I could have compelled -her to act better toward our families, though of course -I could not have changed her feelings—or my own, for -that matter. But, as often happens in this world, the -thing that was in motive shameful turned out well. -We and our families had grown hopelessly apart. Intercourse -with them could not but have been embarrassing -and uncomfortable for both sides. When we got them -the farm, got them away from the malarial and squalid -part of Passaic into a healthful region where they lived -in much better health and in a comfort they could appreciate, -we did the best possible thing for them, as well -as for ourselves. Do not think for a moment that because -I am ashamed of my snobbish motives I am therefore -advocating the keeping up of irksome and absurd -ties merely out of wormy sentimentality. It -has always seemed to me, when we have but the one -chance at life, the one chance to make the best of our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span> -talents and opportunities, that only moral or mental -weakness, or both, would waste the one chance in the -bondage of outworn ties. When one has outgrown any -association, lop it off relentlessly, say I. If the living -lets the dying cling to it, the dying does not live but -the living dies. If you are associated with anyone in -any way—business, social, ties of affection, whatever -you please—and if you do not wish to lose that one, -then keep yourself alive and abreast of him or her. -And if you let yourself begin to decay and find yourself -cut away, whose is the fault, if fault there be? We—Edna -and I—perhaps did not do all we might to make -our outgrown families happy; I say perhaps, though -I am by no means sure that we did not do all that was -in our power, for they certainly would have got no -pleasure out of seeing more of two people so uncongenial -to them in every respect. At any rate, we did -not leave our families to starve or to suffer. Hard -though my charming, lovely wife was, I cannot conceive -her sinking to that depth. On the whole, I feel that -we could honestly say we took the right course with -them. That is, we helped them without hindering ourselves. -We did the right thing, though not in the right -way.</p> - -<p>While our families were choosing a farm, were fixing -up the buildings to suit their needs and tastes, were -moving themselves from their ancient haunts, Edna was -as industriously busy making far deeper inroads on -the new prosperity. She was planning the conquest of -New York.</p> - -<p>Every day in the year many a suddenly enriched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span> -family is busy about the same enterprise. Families from -the less fashionable parts of the city moving to the -fashionable parts. Families from other cities and towns—east, -west, north, and south—advancing to social conquest -under the leadership of mammas and daughters -tired of shining in obscure, monotonous, and unappreciative -places. There are I forget how many thousands -of millionaires on Manhattan Island; enough, I know, -with the near millionaires and those living like millionaires, -to make a city of three or four hundred thousand, -not including servants and parasites. Not all of these -have the fashionable craze; at least, they haven’t it in -its worst form—the form in which it possessed my wife. -All the acute sufferers must find suitable lodgments near -Fifth Avenue if not in it.</p> - -<p>Now New York is ever ready to receive and to -“trim” the arriving millionaire. It has all kinds of -houses and apartments to meet the peculiarities of his—or, -rather, of his wife’s and daughter’s—notions of -grandeur. It has a multitude of purveyors of furnishings -and decorations likewise designed to catch crude -and grandiose tastes. My wife was busy with these -gentry.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think we’d better go a little slow?” said -I. “Why not live in a hotel on Manhattan and look -about us?”</p> - -<p>I had respect for my wife’s capacity at the woman -side of the game; she had thoroughly drilled me to more -than generous appreciation of it. But at the same time -I was not so blinded by her charm for me or so convinced -by her insistent and plausible egotism that I had not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span> -noted certain minor failures of hers due to her ignorance -of the art of spending money. She was clever at learning. -But often her vanity lured her into fancying she -knew, when in fact her education in that particular direction -was all miseducation. She dressed much more -giddily in our first years in Brooklyn than she did afterwards. -And in the later years she made still further -discoveries as to dress that resulted in another revolution, -away from quietness, not toward the gaudy but -toward smartness—that curious quality which makes a -woman’s toilet conspicuous without the least suggestion -of the loud.</p> - -<p>However, Edna scorned my suggestion that she -make haste slowly. She had long been engaged in a -thorough study of the mode of life in millionairedom. -Newspapers, Sunday supplements, magazines, and society -novels had helped her. She had examined the -exteriors of the famous palaces. She had got into the -drawing-rooms and ballrooms of two or three palaces -by way of high-priced charity tickets. She had in one -instance roamed into sitting rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms -until caught and led back by some vigilant and -unbribable servant. I wonder if she ever recalls that -adventure now! Probably not. I think I have recorded -her ability absolutely to forget whatever it pleases her -not to remember. She had been educating herself, so -when I suggested caution, she replied:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you fret, Godfrey. I know what I’m about. -I’ll get what we’ve got to have.”</p> - -<p>And I’ll concede that she did—also, that I thought -it overwhelmingly grand at the time. It was a house<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span> -in a fashionable side street, between Madison avenue -and Fifth—a magnificent house built for exactly such -a family as mine. That is, it was built entirely for show -and not at all for comfort; it fairly bristled with the -luxuries and “modern conveniences,” but most of them -were of the sort that looks comfortable but is not. The -rent was some preposterous sum—thirty-five or forty -thousand a year. We had room enough for the housing -of nearly a hundred people, counting servants as people, -which I believe is not the custom. It was fitted throughout -in the fashion which those clever leeches who think -out and sell luxuries have in all ages imposed upon the -rich man because it means money in their pockets. -Once in a while you find a rich man who has the courage -to live as he pleases, but most of them live as the -fashion commands. And many of them have no idea -that there is any less comfortless and less foolish way -to live. You imagine, gentle reader, that people with -money live in beauty and comfort. You imagine that -you could do it also if you had but the wealth. Believe -me, you deceive yourself. Beyond question a certain -amount of money is necessary to the getting of attractive -and comfortable surroundings. But there is another, -an equally indispensable and a far rarer factor. -That factor, gentle reader, is intelligence—knowledge -of the resources of civilization, knowledge of the realities -as to comfort, luxury, and taste.</p> - -<p>I am tempted to linger upon the details of the extravagance -of that first big establishment of Edna’s. -It was so astounding and so ridiculous. I saw that she -had delivered us and our fortune over to hordes of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span> -crafty, thirsty bloodsuckers—merchants, tradesmen, -servants. But her heart was set upon it, and all other -rich people were living in that same way. “You want -to do the right thing by Margot, don’t you?” said she.</p> - -<p>“By you and Margot,” said I. “Go ahead. I -guess I can find the money.”</p> - -<p>I shan’t here go into the ways I discovered or invented -for finding that money. They were not too -scrupulous, but neither were they commercially dishonorable. -I must smile there. Being of an inquiring and -jocose mind I have often tried to find an action that, -in the opinion of the most eminent commercial authorities, -was absolutely dishonorable. Never yet have I -found a single action, however wrong and even criminal -in general, that they would not declare in certain circumstances -perfectly honorable. And those “certain -circumstances” could always be boiled down to the one -circumstance—needing the money.</p> - -<p>I can’t recall exactly how many servants we had to -wait on us two, but it was about thirty-five. I remember -hearing my wife say one month that our meat bill -alone was about a thousand dollars. For a time I fancied -we were living more grandly than anyone else in -town. But it soon revealed itself to me that, as things -went with “our class,” we were leading rather a simple -life. Certainly nothing we did marked us out from the -others in that region. The sum totals suggested that -servants stood at the front windows all day long tossing -money into the street. But nothing of the kind occurred. -You would have said we ate the finest food in wholesale -quantities. Yet never did I get a notably good meal at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[96]</span> -my own house. The coffee was always poor. The fruit -was below the average of sidewalk stands. We often -had cold-storage fowls and fish on the table. We paid -for the best; I’m sure we paid for it many times over. -We got—what one always gets when the wife is too -intellectual and too busy to attend to her business. But -I assure you it was grandly served. The linen and the -dishes were royal, the servants were in liveries of impressive -color and form—though I could have wished -that my wife had been as sensitive to odors as I was, -and had compelled some of those magnificent gentry to -do a little bathing. Throughout the establishment the -same superb scale was maintained. We lived like the -rest of the millionaires, neither better nor worse. We -lived in grandeur and discomfort. But my wife was -ecstatic, and I was therefore content. Yes, we were very -grand. And, as in Brooklyn, the glasses came to the -table with a certain sour odor not alluring as you lifted -them to drink—the odor that causes an observant man -or woman to say, “Aha—dirty rags in this perfect -lady’s kitchen—dirty rags and all that goes with them.” -But only a snarling cynic would complain of these vulgar -trifles. There’s always at least a fly leg in the -ointment.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I tell you I knew what I was about?” said -Edna triumphantly.</p> - -<p>“You did,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t we got what we wanted?”</p> - -<p>“We have,” said I, perhaps somewhat abruptly, for -I was just then wondering how the devil we were going -to keep it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>“And if it hadn’t been for me,” proceeded she “we’d -still be living in <i>Brooklyn</i>!”</p> - -<p>“Or in Passaic,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Don’t <i>speak</i> of Passaic,” she cried. “I’m trying -to forget it.”</p> - -<p>“We were very happy then,” said I.</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> was miserable,” retorted she.</p> - -<p>“I could find it in my heart to wish we weren’t <i>always</i> -attended by servants,” said I. “I almost never -see you alone.”</p> - -<p>“What a bourgeois you are,” laughed she. Then—after -a thorough glance round to make sure housekeeper -or maid or lackey wasn’t on watch—she patted -my cheek and kissed me, and added: “But you do make -me happy. I’m <i>so</i> proud of you! No matter what I -want I’m never afraid to buy it, for I know you can -get all the money you want to.”</p> - -<p>I winced. Said I: “I’m afraid you’d not be proud -of some of the ways I get the money.”</p> - -<p>She frowned. “Don’t talk business, please,” she -said. “You know we never have in all our married life. -You’ve always respected my position as your wife. All -business is low—is mere sordidness.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it’s all low,” said I. “Sometimes I think all -living is low as well. Edna”—I put my arm round her—“don’t -you ever feel that we’d be <i>really</i> happy, that -we’d get something genuine out of life—if you and -Margot and I——”</p> - -<p>She stopped my mouth with a kiss. “You never -will grow up to your station, darling.”</p> - -<p>I said no more. Indeed, it was on hastiest impulse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span> -that I had said so much, an impulse sprung from a -mood of depression.</p> - -<p>The cause of that mood was a nasty reverse in Wall -Street. It had rudely halted me in my triumphant way -toward the security of the man of many millions. It -had set me to wavering uncertainly, with the chances -about even for resuming the march and for tumbling -into the abyss of a discreditable bankruptcy.</p> - -<p>There are in New York two well-defined classes of -the rich—the permanently rich and the precariously -rich. The permanently rich are those who by the vastness -of their wealth or by the strength of their business -and social connections cannot possibly be dislodged -from the plutocracy. The precariously rich are those -who have much money and are making more, but are -not strong enough to survive a series of typhoons, -and are without the support of indissoluble business -and social connections. My friend G——, for example, -head of the famous banking house, associated in -business and by marriage with half the permanent plutocracy, -was practically bankrupt in the late panic. -Had he been a man of ordinary position he would have -gone into bankruptcy, and, I more than suspect, into -jail. But his fellow plutocrats dared not let him drop, -much as they would have liked to see his arrogance -brought low, much as they longed to divide among themselves -his holdings of gilt-edged securities; if he had -gone down it would have made the whole financial world -tremble. He was saved. On the other hand, my friend -J——, richer actually, was ruined, was plucked by his -associates, was finally jailed for doing precisely the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span> -things every man of finance did over and over again -in that same period of stress—for, what invariably happens -to moral codes in periods of stress?</p> - -<p>I was at that time—but not now, gentle reader, so -cheer up and read on—I was at that time in the class -not of the permanently but of the precariously rich. -And through a miscalculation I had laid myself open to -the dangers that lie in wait for the man short of ready -cash. The miscalculation was as to the extravagance -of my wife’s undertakings. She, against my express request, -had contracted without consulting or telling me -several enormous bills. It is idle to say she ought not -have done this. I knew her well; I should have been on -guard. I had begun my married life wrong, as the -young man very much in love is apt to do; so, to hold -her love and liking, I had to keep on giving her taste -for spending money free rein. If I had not, she would -have thought me small and mean, would have made life -at home exceedingly uncomfortable for me, for I am -not of those men who can take from a woman what -they wish whether she wishes to give or not. So the -whole fault was mine. When the storm broke, in the -light of its first terrific flash that illuminated for me -every part of my affairs, I discovered that I was not -prepared as I had been imagining. The big bills of -my wife were presented, for the merchants knew I was -heavily interested in the stocks that were tobogganing. -Those bills had to be paid, and paid at once, or it -would run like wildfire uptown and down that I was in -difficulties; and when a man is known to be in financial -difficulties, how the birds and beasts of prey from eagles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span> -and lions to buzzards and jackals do come flapping and -loping!</p> - -<p>There followed several anxious days and nights. On -one of those nights I rose from beside my wife—we still -slept together—and went into the adjoining room. I -turned on an electric light and began for the thousandth -time, I dare say, to look at the critical papers and to -grope for the desperate “way out.” I was startled by -my wife’s voice—sleepy, peevish:</p> - -<p>“Do turn out that light and come to bed, Godfrey. -You know how it disturbs me for you to get up -in the night. And I’ve such a hard day before me to-morrow -with the upholsterers and curtain people.”</p> - -<p>I obediently turned off the light. As I was about -to throw myself into bed and draw the covers over me, -a broad beam from the moon flooded the face of a portrait -on the opposite wall—the face of my daughter -Margot. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at -that face—pure, sweet, with the same elevated expression -her mother had in these days of refinement and -climbing. Said I to Edna:</p> - -<p>“Are you asleep, dear?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered crossly. “I’m waiting for you -to quiet down.”</p> - -<p>“Then—let me talk to you a few minutes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please!” she cried, flinging herself to the far -edge of the bed. “You have no consideration for me—none -at all.”</p> - -<p>“Listen,” I said. “I’m face to face with ruin.”</p> - -<p>She did not move or speak, but I could feel her -intense attention.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>“If I let matters take their course I can save my -reputation and my official position. But for many -years we’ll have to live quietly—about as we did in -Brooklyn.”</p> - -<p>“I <i>can’t</i> do that,” cried she. “The fall would kill -me. You know how proud I am.... Just as I had -everything ready for us to get into society! Godfrey, -how could you! And I thought you were clever at -business.”</p> - -<p>I could not see her, nor she me, except in dimmest -outline. I said: “But we’d have each other and Margot. -And my salary isn’t so small, as salaries go.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t there <i>any</i> way to avoid it?” She was sitting -up in bed, her nervous fingers upon my arm. “You -must <i>think</i>, Godfrey. You mustn’t play Margot and -me this horrible trick. You mustn’t give up so easily. -You must think—think—<i>think</i>!”</p> - -<p>“I have,” said I. “I’ve not slept for three days -and nights. There’s no way—no honest way.”</p> - -<p>“Then there <i>is</i> a way!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“But not an honest one.”</p> - -<p>She laughed scornfully. “And you pretend to love -me! When my life and Margot’s happiness are at stake -you talk like a Sunday-school boy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I. “And I’ve been thinking more or -less that way lately for the first time in years. It wasn’t -long after I started when I cut my business eye teeth. -I found out that as the game lay I’d not get far if I -stuck to the old maxims of the copy book and the Sunday -school. Except by accident nobody ever got rich -who followed them. To get rich you’ve got to make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span> -a lot of people work for you and work cheap, and -you’ve got to sell what they make as dear as you can. -Success in business means taking advantage of the ignorance -or the necessities of your fellow men, or both.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t waste time talking that kind of nonsense,” -said she impatiently. “It doesn’t mean anything to -me—or to anybody, I guess. The thing for you to do -is to put your mind on the real thing—how to save your -family and yourself.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I’m talking about,” said I. “I’m -talking about saving myself and my family. As I told -you, my troubles—the first business troubles I’ve ever -had—have set me to thinking. I’ve not been doing -right all these years. It’s true, everybody does as I’ve -been doing. It’s true I’ve been more generous and -more considerate than most men with opportunities and -the sense to see them. But I’ve been doing wrong.”</p> - -<p>I paused, hoping for some sign of sympathy. None -came. I went on:</p> - -<p>“And I’ve been wondering these last few days if by -doing it I haven’t been ruining myself and my family—not -financially, but in more important ways. Edna, -what’s the sense in this life we’re leading? What will -be the end of it all? Is there any decency or happiness -in it? Haven’t we been going backward instead of -forward?”</p> - -<p>All the time I was talking I could feel she was not -listening. When I finished she said: “Godfrey, what is -this way you can escape by?”</p> - -<p>“I can sell out my partners in the deals that have -gone bad.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[103]</span>“Perhaps they’re selling <i>you</i> out,” she instantly -suggested. “Why, of course they are doing that very -thing!—while <i>you</i> are driveling about honesty like a -backwoods hypocrite of a church deacon.”</p> - -<p>“No, they’re not selling me out,” said I.</p> - -<p>“How do you know?” cried she.</p> - -<p>“I caught them at that trick in a former deal and -in the early stages of this one. And I fixed things so -that, while they have to trust me, I don’t trust them.”</p> - -<p>She laughed mockingly. “Godfrey, I think your -mind must be going. You talking about sacrificing -your fortune and your wife and your child for men -who’ve tried to ruin you—men who are even now thinking -out some scheme for doing it.... Suppose you -saved yourself and let them go—what then? Wouldn’t -you be rich? And when you were secure again couldn’t -you pay them back what they lost if you were still -foolish enough to think it necessary?”</p> - -<p>It was not the first time she had astonished me with -the depth of her practical insight—and her skill at -logic—when she cared to use her mind. “I had thought -of saving myself and paying back afterwards,” said I. -“But I’m not sure I’d save myself. It’s simply my one -chance.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ve got to take that chance,” said she.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t expect you to talk like this,” said I. -“The only reason I haven’t spoken of my troubles before -was that I feared you’d forbid me to do what I was -being tempted to do.”</p> - -<p>And that was the truth about my feeling. I had -always heard—and had firmly believed—that woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span> -was somehow the exemplar of ideal morality, that it -was she who kept men from being worse than they were, -that the evil being done by men pursuing success was -done without the knowledge of their pure, idealist wives -and mothers and daughters. I can’t account for my -stupidity in this respect. Had I not on every side the -spectacle that gave the lie to the shallow pretense of -feminine moral superiority? Was it not the women, -with their insatiable appetite for luxury and splurge; -was it not the women, with their incessant demands for -money and ever more money; was it not the women, -with their profound immorality of any and every class -that earns nothing and simply spends; was it not the -women, the <i>ladies</i>, who were edging on the men to get -money, no matter how? For whom were the grand -houses, the expensive hotels, the exorbitant flimsy clothing, -the costly jewelry, the equipages, the opera boxes, -the senseless, spendthrift squandering upon the degrading -vanities of social position?</p> - -<p>I laughed somewhat cynically. “No wonder you’ve -always refused to learn anything about business,” said -I. “It’s a habit among big business men to refuse to -know anything as to the details of a large transaction -that can be carried through only by dirty work. If -we don’t know, we can pretend that the dirty work isn’t -being done by or for us—isn’t being done at all.”</p> - -<p>“Now you are getting coarse,” said my wife. “Do -you know what I think of you?” I could not see her -expression, but the voice always betrays if there is insincerity, -because we do not deal enough with the blind -to learn to deceive perfectly with the voice. Her tones<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span> -were absolutely sincere as she answered her own question: -“I think it is cowardly of you to come to me with -your business troubles. If you were brave you’d simply -have quietly done whatever was necessary to save your -family. Yes, it is cowardly!”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean it as cowardice,” said I, admiring -but irritated by this characteristic adroitness. “In the -stories and the plays that give such thrills, the husband, -in the crisis and tempted to do wrong, appeals to his -wife. And they are brought closer together, and she -helps him to do right, and everything ends happily.” -Again I laughed good-humoredly. “It doesn’t seem -to be turning out that way, does it, dear? My heavenly -picture of you and Margot and me living modestly and -making up in love what we lack in luxury—it doesn’t -attract you?”</p> - -<p>She said in her patient, superior tone: “I suppose -you never will understand me or my ideals. What -you’ve been doing in annoying me with your business, -it’s as if when I was giving a dinner I assembled my -guests and compelled them to watch all the preparations -for the dinner—the killing of the lambs and the -fish and the birds, the cleaning, all those ugly and low -things. Bringing business into the home and the social -life, it’s like bringing the kitchen into the drawing-room.”</p> - -<p>The obvious answer to this shallow but plausible and -attractive cleverness of hers did not come to me then. -If it had I’d not have spoken it. For of what use to -argue with the human animal, female or male, about its -dearest selfishnesses and vanities? Of what use to point<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span> -out to human self-complacence, greediness and hypocrisy -that a “refined” and “cultured” existence of ease -and luxury can be obtained only by the theft and murder -of dishonest business—that for one man to be vastly -rich thousands of men must somehow be robbed and -oppressed, even though the rich man himself directly -does no robbing and oppressing? If I have sucking -pig for dinner, I kill sucking pig as surely as if my -hand wielded the knife of the butcher. But the human -race finds it convenient and comfortable not to think so. -Therefore, let us not bother our heads about it.</p> - -<p>At that period of my career I had not thought things -out so thoroughly as I have since—in these days when -events have compelled me to open my eyes and to see. -In my hypocrisy, in my eagerness to save myself, I was -not loth to take refuge behind the advice given by my -wife partly in genuine ignorance of business, partly in -pretended ignorance of it.</p> - -<p>Said I: “I suppose you’re right. I ought to think -only of my family. Heaven knows, my rascal friends -aren’t thinking in my interest. If I don’t do it, no one -will. There’s no disputing that—eh?”</p> - -<p>No reply. She was asleep—or, rather, was pretending -to be asleep. The matter had been settled, why discuss -it further? Why expose herself longer than unavoidable -to the danger of being unable to be, or to -pretend to be, ignorant of business, of the foundation -upon which her splendid, cultured structure of ambition -proudly reared?</p> - -<p>Often in her sleep her hand would seek mine, and -when it was comfortably nestled she would give a little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span> -sigh of content that thrilled me through and through. -Her hand now stole into mine and the sigh of content -came softly from her lips. “My love,” I murmured, -kissing her cheek before I lay down. How could I for -a minute have considered any course that would have -made her unhappy, that might have lessened, perhaps -destroyed, her love for me?</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IV</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is hardly necessary to say that I threw overboard -my partners and saved myself. Indeed, I emerged from -the crisis—liberally bespattered with mud, it is true—but -richer than when I entered it. Since I was doing -the act that was the supreme proof of my possessing the -courage and the skill for leadership in business—since I -was definitely breaking with the old-fashioned morality—I -felt it was the part of wisdom to do the thing so -thoroughly, so profitably, that instead of being execrated -I should be admired. There were attacks on me -in the newspapers; there were painful interviews with -my partners—not so painful to me as they would have -been had I not been able to remind them of their own -unsuccessful treacheries and to enforce the spoken reminder -with the documentary proof. But on the whole -I came off excellently well—as who does not that “gets -away with the goods?”</p> - -<p>In these days of increased intelligence and consequent -lessened hypocrisy, the big business man is the object of -only perfunctory hypocrisies from outraged morality. -It has been discovered that the farmer watering his milk -or the grocer using solder-“mended” scales is as bad -as the man who “reorganizes” a railway or manipulates<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span> -a stock—is worse actually because the massed mischief -of the million little business rascals is greater than -the sensational misdeeds of the few great rascals. It -has been discovered that human nature is good or bad -only according to the opportunities and necessities, not -according to abstract moral standards. And the cry -is no longer, “Kill the scoundrel,” but, “That fellow -had the sense to outwit us. We must learn from him -how to sharpen our wits so that we won’t let ourselves -be robbed.” A healthful sign this, that masses of men -are ceasing from twaddle about vague ideals and are -educating themselves in practical horse sense. It may -be that some day the honest husbandman will learn to -guard his granary not only against the robber with -the sack in the dark of the morn, but also against the -rats and mice who pilfer ten bushels to every one that -is stolen. Of one thing I am certain—until men learn -to take heed in the small, they will remain easy prey in -the large.</p> - -<p>Far from doing me harm, my bold stroke was of -the greatest benefit—from the standpoint of material -success, and that is the only point of view I am here -considering. It did me as much good with the world as -it has done me with you, gentle reader. For while you -are exclaiming against my wickedness you are in your -secret heart confessing that if I had chosen the ideally -honest course, had retired to obscurity and poverty, -you would have approved—and would have lost interest -in me. Why, if I had chosen that ideal course, I doubt -not I should have lost my railway position. My directors -would have waxed enthusiastic over my “old-fashioned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span> -honesty,” and would have looked round for another -and shrewder and stronger man to whom to -intrust the management of their railway—which would -not pay dividends were it run along the lines of old-fashioned -honesty. The outburst of denunciation soon -spent itself, like a summer storm beating the giant cliffs -of a mountain. Of what use to rage futilely against -my splendid immovable fortune? The attacks, the talk -about my bold stroke, the exaggerations of the size -of the fortune I had made, all served to attract attention -to me, to make me a formidable and an interesting -figure. I leaped from obscurity into fame and -power—and I had the money to maintain the position -I had won.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Long before, indeed as soon as we moved to Manhattan, -my wife had joined fashionable and exclusive -Holy Cross Church and had plunged straightway into -its charity work. A highly important part of her -Brooklyn education had been got in St. Mary’s, in -learning how to do charity work and how to make it -count socially. Edna genuinely loved charity work. -She loved to patronize, loved to receive those fawning -blessings and handkissings which city poverty becomes -adept at giving the rich it lives off of. The poor family -understands perfectly that the rich visit and help -not through mere empty sentimental nonsense of -brotherhood, but to have their vanities tickled in exchange -for the graciousness of their condescending -presence and for the money they lay out. As the poor -want the money and have no objection to paying for it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span> -with that cheap and plentiful commodity, cringing—scantily -screening mockery and contempt—rich and -poor meet most comfortably in our cities. Not New -York alone, but any center of population, for human -nature is the same, city and country, San Francisco, -Bangor—Pekin or Paris, for that matter.</p> - -<p>There is a shallow fashion of describing this or that -as peculiarly New York, usually snobbishness or domestic -unhappiness or wealth worship, dishonest business -men or worthless wives. It is time to have done with -such nonsense. New York is in no way peculiar, nor is -any other place, beyond trifling surface differences. -New York is nothing but the epitome of the whole country, -just as Chicago is. If you wish to understand -America, study New York or Chicago, our two universal -cities. There you find in one place and in admirable -perspective a complete museum of specimens of what is -scattered over three and a half million square miles. -For, don’t forget, New York is not the few blocks of -fashionable district alone. It is four million people of -all conditions, tastes, and activities. And the dominant -force of struggle for money and fashion is no more -dominant in New York than it is in the rest of America. -New York is more truly representative of America than -is Chicago, for in Chicago the Eastern and Southern elements -are lacking and the Western element is strong -out of proportion.</p> - -<p>I was telling of my wife’s blossoming as Lady Bountiful -in search not of a heavenly crown, but of what -human Lady Bountiful always seeks—social position. -Charity covers a multitude of sins; the greatest of them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[112]</span> -is hypocrisy. I have yet to see a charitable man or -woman or child whose chief and only noteworthy object -was not self-glorification. The people who believe in -brotherhood do not go in for charity. They wish to -abolish poverty, whereas charity revels in poverty and -seeks to increase it, to change it from miserable poverty -which might die into comfortable pauperism which can -live on, and fester and breed on, and fawn on and give -vanity ever more and more exquisite titillations. Holy -Cross, my wife’s new spiritual guide, was past master -of the pauper-making and pauper-utilizing arts. Its -rector and his staff of slimy sycophants had the small -standing army of its worthy poor trained to perfection. -When my wife went down among them, she returned -home with face aglow and eyes heavenly. What a treat -those wretches had given her! And in the first blush of -her enthusiasm she dispensed lavishly, where the older -members of the church exacted the full measure of titillation -for every dollar invested and awarded extra sums -only to some novelty in lickspittling or toadeating.</p> - -<p>Were I not sure I should quite wear out the forbearance -of gentle reader, I should linger to describe -this marvelous charity plant for providing idle or social-position-hunting -rich women with spiritual pleasures— I -had almost said debaucheries, but that would be intruding -my private and perhaps prejudiced opinion. -I have no desire to irritate, much less shake the faith -of, those who believe in Holy Cross and its “uplift” -work. And I don’t suppose Holy Cross does any great -amount of harm. The poor who prostitute themselves -to its purposes are weak things, beyond redemption.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span> -As for the rich who waste time and money there, would -they not simply waste elsewhere were there no Holy -Cross?</p> - -<p>My wife was, at that time, a very ignorant woman, -thinly covered with a veneer of what I now know was a -rather low grade of culture. That veneer impressed -me. It had impressed our Brooklyn friends of St. -Mary’s. But I fancy it must have looked cheap to -expert eyes. Where her surpassing shrewdness showed -itself was in that she herself recognized her own shortcomings. -Rare and precious is the vanity that comforts -and sustains without self-deception. She knew -she wasn’t the real thing, knew she had not yet got -hold of the real thing. And when she began to move -about, cautiously and quietly, in Holy Cross, she realized -that at last she was in the presence of the real thing.</p> - -<p>My big responsibilities, my associations in finance, -had been giving me a superb training in worldly wisdom. -I think I had almost as strong a natural aptitude -for “catching on” to the better thing in speech -and manner and in dress as had Edna. It is not self-flattery -for me to say that up to the Holy Cross period -I was further advanced than she. Certainly I ought -to have been, for a man has a much better opportunity -than a woman, and one of the essentials of equipment -for great affairs is ability to observe accurately the little -no less than the large. Looking back, I recall things -which lead me to suspect that Edna saw my superiority -in certain matters most important to her, and was irritated -by it. However that may be, a few months in -Holy Cross and she had grasped the essentials of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span> -social art as I, or any other masculine man, never could -grasp it. And her veneer of “middle-class” culture -disappeared under a thick and enduring coating of the -best New York manner.</p> - -<p>“What has become of <i>you</i>?” I said to her. “I -haven’t seen you in weeks.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand,” said she, ruffling as she always -did when she suspected me of indulging in my -coarse and detestable sense of humor.</p> - -<p>“Why, you don’t act like yourself at all,” said I. -“Even when we’re alone you give the uncomfortable -sense of dressed-up—not as if <i>you</i> were ‘dressed-up,’ -but as if <i>I</i> were. I feel like a plowboy before a -princess.”</p> - -<p>She was delighted!</p> - -<p>“You,” I went on, “are now exactly like the rest of -those women in Holy Cross. I suppose it’s all right to -look and talk and act that way before people. At least, -I’ve no objection if it pleases you. But for heaven’s -sake, Edna, don’t spoil our privacy with it. The queen -doesn’t wear her coronation robes all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you?” cried I, laughing. “What a charming -fraud you are!” And I seized her in my arms and -kissed her. And she seemed to yield and to return my -caresses. But I was uncomfortable. She would not -drop that new manner. The incident seems trifling -enough; perhaps it was trifling. But it stands out in -my memory. It marks the change in our relationship. -I recall it all distinctly—how she looked, how young and -charming and cold, what she was wearing, the delicate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span> -simple dress that ought to have made her most alluring -to me, yet made me feel as if she were indeed alluring, -but not for <i>me</i>. A subtle difference there, but abysmal; -the difference between the woman who tries to make herself -attractive for the sake of her husband and the woman -who makes toilets in the conscious or half-conscious -longing successfully to prostitute herself to the eyes of -the public. I recall every detail of that incident; yet I -have only the vaguest recollection of our beginning to -occupy separate bedrooms. By that time the feeling of -alienation must have grown so strong that I took the -radical change in our habits as the matter of course.</p> - -<p>Many are the women, in all parts of the earth, who -have sought to climb into the world of fashion by the -broad and apparently easy stairway of charity. But -most of them have failed because they were unaware of -the secret of that stairway, an unsuspected secret -which I shall proceed to point out. It seems, as I have -said, a particularly easy stairway—broad, roomy, with -invalid steps. It is, in fact, a moving stairway so cunningly -contrived that she—it is usually she—who ascends -keeps in the same place. She goes up, but at -exactly her ascending rate the stairway goes down. She -sees other women making apparently no more effort -than she ascending rapidly, and presently entering the -earthly heaven at the top. Yet there she stands, marking -time, moving not one inch upward, and there she -will stand until she wearies, relaxes her efforts, and -finds herself rapidly descending. But how do the -women who ascend accomplish it? I do not know. You -must ask them. I only know the cause of the failure<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span> -of the women who do not ascend. If I knew why the -others succeeded I should not tell it. I would not deprive -fashionable women of the joy of occupying a difficult -height from which they can indulge themselves -in the happiness of sneering and spitting down at -their lowlier sisters. And I have no sympathy with -the aspirations or the humiliations of those lowlier -sisters.</p> - -<p>My energetic and aspiring wife presently found -herself on this stairway, with no hint as to its secret, -much less as to the way of overcoming its peculiarity. -She toiled daily in Holy Cross. She subscribed to -everything, she helped in everything. She was the -proud recipient of the rector’s loud praises as his “most -devoted, least worldly, most spiritual helper.” But—not -an invitation of the kind she wanted. Everyone -was “just lovely” to her. Whenever any charitable -or spiritual matter was to be discussed, no matter how -grand and exclusive the house in which the discussion -was to be held, there was my wife in a place of honor, -eagerly consulted—and urged to subscribe. But nothing -unworldly. They understood how spiritual she was, -did those sweet, good people. They knew Saint Edna -wished no social frivolities—no dinners or theater parties, -no bridge or dancing.</p> - -<p>She was a wise lady. She hid her burning impatience. -She smiled and purred when she yearned to -scowl and scratch. She waited, and prayed for some -lucky accident that would swing her across the invisible, -apparently nonexistent but actually impassable dead -line. She had expected snubs and cold shoulders.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span> -Never a snub, never a cold shoulder. Always smiles -and gracious handshakings and amiable familiarities, -but those always of the kind that serve to accentuate -caste distinction instead of removing it. For the first -time in her life, I think, she was completely stumped. -She could combat obstacles. She might even have -found a way to fight fog. But how ridiculous to make -struggles and thrust out fists when there is nothing -but empty, sunny air!</p> - -<p>She held church lunches and dinners at our house—of -course, had me on duty at the dinners. All in vain. -The distinction between the spiritual and the temporal -remained in force. The grand people came, acted as if -they were delighted, complimented her on her house, -on her hospitality, went away, to invite her to similar -dreary functions at their houses. And my, how it did -cost her! No wonder Holy Cross made a pet of her -and elected me to the board of vestrymen.</p> - -<p>Once in a while she would find something in her net, -so slyly cast, so softly drawn. She would have a wild -spasm of joy; then the something would turn out to -be another climber like herself. Those climbers avoided -each other as devils dodge the font of holy water. The -climber she would have caught would be one who, ignorant -of the intricacies of New York society, was under -the impression that the Mrs. Godfrey Loring so conspicuous -in Holy Cross must be a social personage. -They would examine each other—at a series of joyous -entertainments each would provide for the other, would -discover their mutual mistake—and— You know the -contemptuous toss with which the fisherman rids himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span> -of a bloater; you know the hysterical leap of the -released bloater back into the water.</p> - -<p>But how it was funny! My wife did not take me -into her confidence as to her social struggles. She maintained -with me the same sweet, elegant exterior of -spiritual placidity with which she faced the rest of the -world. Nevertheless, in a dim sort of way I had some -notion of what she was about—though, as I was presently -to discover, I was wholly mistaken in my idea of -her progress.</p> - -<p>“What has happened to Mrs. Lestrange?” I said -to her one evening at dinner. “Is she ill?”</p> - -<p>She cast a quick, nervous glance in the direction of -the butler. I, looking at him by way of a mirror, -thought I saw upon his aristocratic countenance a faint -trace of that insolent secret glee which fills servants -when their betters are humiliated before them. “Mrs. -Lestrange?” she said carelessly. “Oh, I see her now -and then.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ve been inseparable until lately,” said I. -“A quarrel, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” said my wife tartly.</p> - -<p>And she shifted abruptly to another subject. When -I went to the little study adjoining my sitting room to -smoke she came with me. There she said:</p> - -<p>“Please don’t mention Mrs. Lestrange before the -servants again.”</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s up?” said I. “Did she turn out to -be a crook?”</p> - -<p>“Heavens, no! How coarse you are, Godfrey. -Simply that I was terribly mistaken in her.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>“She looked like a confidence woman or a madam,” -said I. “Didn’t you tell me she was a howling swell?”</p> - -<p>“I thought she was,” said my wife, and I knew -something important was coming; only that theory -would account for her admitting she had made a mistake. -“And in a way she was. But they caught her -several years ago taking money to get some dreadful -low Western people into society. Since then she’s -asked—she herself—because she’s well connected and -amusing. But she can’t help anyone else.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see,” said I. “And you don’t feel strong -enough socially as yet to be able to afford the luxury -of her friendship.”</p> - -<p>“Strong enough!” said Edna with intense bitterness. -“I have no position at all—none whatever.”</p> - -<p>I was surprised, for until that moment I had been -assuming she was on or near the top of the wave, moving -swiftly toward triumphant success. “You want too -much,” said I. “You’ve really got all there is to get. -At that last reception of yours you had all the heavy -swells. My valet told me so.”</p> - -<p>“Reception to raise funds for the orphanage,” said -Edna with a vicious sneer—the unloveliest expression I -had ever seen on her lovely face—and I had seen not a -few unlovely expressions there in our many married -years, some of them extremely trying years. “I tell -you I am nobody socially. They take my money for -their rotten old charities. They use me for their tiresome -church work—and they do nothing for me—nothing! -How I <i>hate</i> them!”</p> - -<p>I sat smoking my cigar and watching her face. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span> -was a wonderfully young face. Not that she was so -old; on the contrary, she was still young in years. I -call her face wonderfully young because it had that look -of inexhaustible, eternal youth which is rare even in -the faces of boys and girls. But that evening I was -not thinking so much of her youth and her beauty as -of a certain expression of hardness, of evil passions -rampant—envy and hatred and jealousy, savage disappointment -over defeats in sordid battles.</p> - -<p>“Edna,” said I, hesitatingly, “why don’t you drop -all that? Can’t you see there’s nothing in it? You’re -tempting the worst things in your nature to grow and -destroy all that’s good and sweet—all that makes you—and -me—happy. People aren’t necessary to us. And -if you must have friends, surely <i>all</i> the attractive people -in New York aren’t in that little fashionable set. Judging -from what I’ve seen of them, they’re a lot of bores.”</p> - -<p>“They look bored here,” retorted she. “And no -wonder! They come as a Christian duty.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “Now, honestly, are those fashionable -people the best educated, the best in any way—any real -way? I’ve talked with the men, and the younger ones—the -ones that go in for society—are unspeakable rotters. -I wouldn’t have them about.”</p> - -<p>Edna’s eyes flashed, and her form quivered in a gust -of hysterical fury—the breaking of long-pent passion, -of anger and despair, taking me as an excuse for vent. -“Oh, it’s terrible to be married to a man who <i>always</i> -misunderstands!—one who can’t sympathize!” cried -she. It was a remark she often made, but never before -had she put so much energy, so much bitterness into it.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span>“What do I misunderstand?” I asked, more hurt -than I cared to show. “Where don’t I sympathize?”</p> - -<p>“Let’s not talk about it!” exclaimed she. “If I -weren’t a remarkable woman I’d have given up long ago—I’d -give up now.”</p> - -<p>Before you smile at her egotism, gentle reader, -please remember that husband and wife were talking -alone; also that with a few pitiful exceptions all human -beings think surpassingly well of themselves, and do -not hesitate to express that good opinion privately. I -guess there’s more lying done about lack of egotism and -of vanity generally than about all other matters put -together.</p> - -<p>Said I: “You are indeed a wonder, dear. In this -country one sees many astonishing transformations. -But I doubt if there have been many equal to the transformation -of the girl I married into the girl who’s sitting -before me.”</p> - -<p>“And what good has it done me?” demanded she. -“How I’ve worked away at myself—inside and out—and -all for nothing!”</p> - -<p>“You’ve still got <i>me</i>,” said I jovially, yet in earnest -too. “Lots of women lose their husbands. I’ve never -had a single impulse to wander.”</p> - -<p>In the candor of that intimacy she gave me a most -unflattering look—a look a woman does well not to cast -at a man unless she is more absolutely sure of him than -anyone can be of anything in this uncertain world. I -laughed as if I thought she meant that look as a jest; -I put the look away in my memory with a mark on it -that meant “to be taken out and examined at leisure.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span> -But she was absorbed in her chagrin over her social failure; -she probably hardly realized I was there.</p> - -<p>“Well, what’s the next move?” inquired I presently.</p> - -<p>“You’ve got to help,” replied she—and I knew -this was what she had been revolving in her mind all -evening.</p> - -<p>“Anything that doesn’t take me away from business, -or keep me up too late to fit myself for the next day.”</p> - -<p>“Business—always business,” said she, in deepest -disgust. “Do you <i>never</i> think of anything else?”</p> - -<p>“My business and my family—that’s my life,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“Not your family,” replied she. “You care nothing -about them.”</p> - -<p>“Edna,” I said sharply, “that is unjust and untrue.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you give them money, if that’s what you -mean,” said she disdainfully.</p> - -<p>“And I give them love,” said I. “The trouble is I -give so freely that you don’t value it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are a good husband,” said she carelessly. -“But I want you to take an interest.”</p> - -<p>“In your social climbing?”</p> - -<p>“How insulting you are!” she cried, with flashing -eyes. “I am trying to claim the position we are entitled -to, and you speak of me as if I were one of those -vulgar pushers.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said I humbly. “I was merely -joking.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve often told you that your idea of humor was -revolting.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[123]</span>I felt distressed for her in her chagrin and despair. -I was ready to bear almost anything she might see fit -to inflict. “What do you want me to do?” I asked. -“Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Do you need more money?”</p> - -<p>“I need help—real help,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Money’s god over the realm of fashion, the same -as it is over that of—of religion—of politics—or anything -you please. And luckily I’ve got that little god -in my employ, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“If you are so powerful,” said she, “put me into -fashionable society—make these people receive me and -come to my house.”</p> - -<p>“But they do,” I reminded her.</p> - -<p>“I mean <i>socially</i>,” cried she. “<i>Can’t</i> I make you -understand? Why are business men so dumb at anything -else? Compel these people to take me as one -of them.”</p> - -<p>“Now, Edna, my dear,” protested I, “be reasonable. -How can I do that?”</p> - -<p>“Easily, if you’ve got real power,” rejoined she. -“It’s been done often, I’ve found out lately. At least -half the leaders in society got in originally by compelling -it. But you, going round among men intimately—you -must know it—must have known all along. If -you’d been the right sort of man I’d not have to humiliate -myself by asking you—by saying these dreadful -things.” Her eyes were flashing and her bosom was -heaving. “Women have hated men for less. But I -must bear my cross. You insist on degrading me. Very -well. I’ll let myself be degraded. I’ll say the things a -decent man would not ask a woman to say——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span>“Edna, darling,” I pleaded. “Honestly, I don’t -understand. You’ll have to tell me. And it’s not degrading. -We have no secrets from each other. We -who love each other can say anything to each other—anything. -What do you wish me to do?”</p> - -<p>“Use your power over the men. Frighten them -into ordering their wives to invite us and to accept -our invitations. You do business with a lot of the men, -don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You can benefit or injure them, as you please, -can’t you?—can take money away from them—can put -them in the way of making it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I; “to a certain extent.”</p> - -<p>“And how do you use this power?”</p> - -<p>“In building up great enterprises. I am founding -a city just now, for instance, where there was nothing -but a swamp beside a lake, and——”</p> - -<p>“In making more and more money for yourself,” -she cut in, “you think only of yourself.”</p> - -<p>“And you—what do <i>you</i> think of?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Not of myself,” cried she indignantly. “Never of -myself. Of Margot. Of you. Of the family. I am -working to build <i>us</i> up—to make <i>us</i> somebody and not -mere low money grubbers.”</p> - -<p>I did not see it from her point of view. But I was -not inclined to aggravate her excitement and anger.</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t you use your powers for some unselfish -purpose?” she went on. “Why not try to have -higher ambition?”</p> - -<p>I observed her narrowly. She was sincere.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>“I want you to help me—for Margot’s sake, for -your own sake,” she went on in a kind of exaltation. -“Margot is coming on. She’ll be out in less than three -years. We’ve got to make a position for her.”</p> - -<p>“I thought, up there at Miss Ryper’s she was——”</p> - -<p>“That shows how little interest you take!” cried -Edna. “Don’t you know what is happening? Why, -already the fashionable girls at her school are beginning -to shy off from her——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd!” laughed I. “That simply -could not be. She’s lovely, sweet, attractive in every -way. Any girls anywhere would be proud to have her -as a friend.”</p> - -<p>“How <i>can</i> you be so ignorant of the world!” cried -Edna in a frenzy of exasperation. “Oh, you’ll drive me -mad with your stupidity! Can’t you realize how <i>low</i> -fashionable people are. The girls who were her friends -so long as they were all mere children are now taking a -positive delight in snubbing her, because she’s so pretty -and will be an heiress. It gives them a sense of power -to treat her as an inferior, to make her suffer.”</p> - -<p>I flung away the cigar and sat up in the chair. -“How long has this been going on?” I demanded.</p> - -<p>“Nearly a year,” replied my wife. “It began as -soon as she lost her childishness and developed toward -a woman. I’m glad I’ve roused you at last. So long -as she was a mere baby they liked her—invited her to -their children’s parties—came to hers. But now they’re -dropping her. Oh, it’s maddening! They are so sweet -and smooth, the vile little daughters of vile mothers!”</p> - -<p>“Incredible!” said I. “Surely not those sweet,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span> -well-mannered girls I’ve seen here at her parties? <i>They</i> -couldn’t do that sort of thing. Why, what do those -babies know about social position and such nonsense?”</p> - -<p>“What do they know? What <i>don’t</i> they know?” -cried Edna, trembling with rage at her humiliation and -at my incredulity. “You <i>are</i> an innocent! There -ought to be a new proverb—innocent as a married man. -Why, nowadays the children begin their social training -in the cradle. They soon learn to know a nurse or a -butler from a lady or a gentleman before they learn -to walk. They hear the servants talk. They hear their -parents talk. Except innocent you everyone nowadays -thinks and talks about these things.”</p> - -<p>“But Margot—our Margot—she doesn’t know!” -I said with conviction.</p> - -<p>Edna laughed harshly. “Know? What kind of -mother do you think I am? Of course she knows. -Haven’t I been teaching her ever since she began to -talk? Why do you suppose I’ve always called her the -little duchess?”</p> - -<p>“She suggests a superior little person,” said I, -groping vaguely.</p> - -<p>“She suggests a superior person because I gave -her that name and brought her up to look and act and -feel the part. She expects to be a real duchess some -day—” Edna reared proudly, and her voice rang out -confidently as she added—“and she shall be!”</p> - -<p>I stared at her. It seemed to me she must be out -of her mind. Oh, I was indeed innocent, gentle reader.</p> - -<p>“I’ve always treated her as a duchess, and have -made the servants do it, and have trained her to treat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span> -them as if she were a duchess.” A proud smile came -into her face, transforming it suddenly back to its loveliness. -“The first time I ever read about a duchess—read, -knowing what I was reading about—I decided -that I would have a daughter and that she should be a -duchess.”</p> - -<p>At any previous time such a sally would have made -me laugh. But not then, for I saw that she meant it -profoundly, and for the first time I was realizing what -had been going on in my family, all unsuspected by me.</p> - -<p>“But first,” proceeded Edna, “she shall have the -highest social position in New York. And you must -help if I am to succeed.” The fury burst into her face -again. “Those little wretches, snubbing her!—dropping -her! I’ll make them pay for it.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to tell me that Margot realizes all -this?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Poor child, she’s wretched about it. Only yesterday -she said to me: ‘Mamma, is it true that you and -papa are very common, and that we haven’t anything -but a lot of stolen money? One of the girls got mad -at me because I was so good-looking and so proud, and -taunted me with it.’”</p> - -<p>“Incredible!” said I, dazed.</p> - -<p>“She’s horribly unhappy,” Edna went on. “And it -cuts her to the heart to be losing all her dearest friends. -I did my duty and taught her which girls to cultivate, -and she was intimate only with the right sort of New -York girls.”</p> - -<p>“I expect she has been indiscreet,” said I. “They’ve -found out why she made friends with them and——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span>“You will drive me crazy!” cried Edna. “<i>Can’t</i> -you understand? All the mothers and the governesses—all -the grown people in respectable families teach the -children. Those mothers who don’t teach it directly see -that it’s taught by the governesses, or else select the -proper friends for their little girls and see that they -drop any who aren’t proper.”</p> - -<p>I dropped back in my chair. I was stunned. It -seemed to me I had never heard anything quite so infamous -in my life. And as I reflected on what she had -said I wondered that I had not realized it before. I -recalled a hundred significant facts that had come out -in talks I had had with men, women, and children in -this fashionable world from which we were excluded, -yet with which we were in constant and close communication.</p> - -<p>“The question is, what are <i>you</i> going to do,” proceeded -Edna.</p> - -<p>I shook my head, probably looking as dazed as I -felt.</p> - -<p>“What does that headshake mean?” demanded she.</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i>—taught <i>Margot</i> to be a—a—like those -other girls?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you fool!” cried Edna. And in excuse for -her, please remember I had ever been a dotingly bored -slave of hers—as uxorious a husband as you ever saw—and -therefore inevitably despised, for women have so -little intelligence that they despise a man who loves -them and lets them rule. “You fool!” she repeated. -“Yes, I brought her up like a lady—taught her to -cultivate nice things and nice people. What should I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span> -teach her? To associate with common people? To drop -back toward where we came from—where <i>you</i> belong?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I guess I do,” said I.</p> - -<p>Up to that time I had interested myself in only one -aspect of human nature—the aspect that concerned me -as a business man. But from that time I began to study -the human animal in all his—and her—aspects. And it -was not long before I learned what that animal is forced -to become when exposed to the powerful thrusts and -temptings of wealth and social position. In our alternations -of pride and humility we habitually take undue -credit or give undue blame to ourselves for what is -wholly the result of circumstance. The truth is, we are -like flocks of birds in a high wind. Some of us fly more -steadily than others, some are quite beaten down, others -seem almost self-directing; but all, great and small, -weak and strong, are controlled by the wind, and those -who make the best showing are those who adapt themselves -most skillfully to the will of the wind.</p> - -<p>At the time when Edna and I were talking I had -not become a philosopher. I was in the primitive stages -of development in which most men and nearly all women -remain their whole lives through—the stage in which -you live, gentle reader, with your shallow mistaken notions -of what is and your shallower mistaken notions -of what ought to be. So, as Edna uncovered herself -to me, I shrank in horror. It was fortunate—for her, -at least—that I had always trained myself never to -make hasty speeches. My expertness in that habit has -probably been the principal cause of my business success, -of my ability to outwit even abler men than myself.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span> -I did not yield to the impulse to burst out against her. -I compressed my lips and silently watched as she lifted -the veil over our family life and revealed to me the -truth about it.</p> - -<p>“What are you going to do?” she asked impatiently, -yet with a certain uneasiness born no doubt of -a something in my manner that made her vaguely afraid, -for while she knew I was her slave and despised me, as -I was to learn, for being so weak before a mere woman, -she also knew that, outside of her domain, I was not her -slave nor anybody’s, but planned and executed at the -pleasure of my own will.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” said I slowly. -“I must think. All this is new to me.”</p> - -<p>“If you haven’t any pride in yourself, or in me,” -said she, “still you surely must have pride for Margot.”</p> - -<p>“I think so,” said I.</p> - -<p>“If you could know how they have made the poor -child suffer!”</p> - -<p>I made no reply, nor did I encourage her to talk -further. In fact, when she began again I stopped her -with: “I’ve heard enough, my dear. And I’ve some -important business to attend to.”</p> - -<p>She, preparing to leave me alone with my papers, -came and put her arms round my neck and pressed her -cheek against mine. I think she was uneasy about the -posture of the affair in my mind—feared stupid commercial -I could not appreciate these vital things of life. -I suspect my tranquil reception of her caresses did not -tend to allay her uneasiness. Never before had she -failed to interest me in her physical self; and the only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[131]</span> -reason she then failed was that in the general upsetting -of all my ideas of what my family life was there had -been tossed up to the surface an undefined suspicion of -her sincerity as a wife. I was not altogether blind as -to the relations of men and women, as to the fact that -women often coolly played upon the passions of men -for their own purposes of money getting in its various -forms. My wife was right in her sneer at the innocence -of married men. But there are exceptions, and a woman -with a husband intelligent in every way except in seeing -through women would do well to take care how she -tempts his intelligence to shake off its indifference in -that respect.</p> - -<p>The next morning I was breakfasting alone as usual. -No, gentle reader, I am not girding at my poor wife -as you hastily accuse. I am sure I do not deceive myself -when I say I never was of those men who fuss about -trifles. Thank heaven, as soon as we had a servant my -wife kept away from breakfast. It was one of the things -I loved her for. If I had been married to a woman who -appeared at breakfast looking lovely and smiling sweetly, -I should have become a bad-tempered tyrant. I -want no sentimentalities in the early-morning hours. I -wake up uncomfortable and sour, and I quarrel with -myself and look about for trouble until I have had -something to eat and coffee. Further in the same direction, -I took particular pleasure in my wife’s small personal -slovenlinesses, in her curl papers, in her occasional -overlaying of her face with cold cream and the like, in -her careless negligee worn in her own rooms. There is, I -guess, no nature so prodigal that it has not some small<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span> -economies. Edna had, probably still has, a fondness -for wearing out thoroughly, in secluded privacy, house -dresses, underclothes, and night gowns.</p> - -<p>It took nothing from my delight in her beauty that -she was not invariably beautiful. I’ve rarely seen her -lovely early in the morning. Who is? I should have -taken habitual early-morning loveliness as a personal -insult. I’ve seen her homely all day long, and for several -days at a time. She was as attractive to me than -as at her most beautiful. I detest monotony. Thank -heaven, she was never monotonous to look at; one rather -expects <i>mental</i> monotony in women unless one is a fool. -I didn’t mind her times of homeliness, because she could -be so far, far the opposite of homely. I did not mind her -way of getting herself up in odds and ends, mussily, -but, mind you, never after the Passaic days unclean—never! -I did not mind her dishevelments because, when -she set out to dress, she did it so bang up well. She -was born with a talent for dress; she rapidly developed -it into an art. You know what I mean. You’ve seen -the girl with hardly five dollars’ worth of clothing on -her, including the hat, yet making the woman from the -best dressmaker in Paris look a frump.</p> - -<p>I never had to join the innumerable and pitiful army -of men who give the woman their money to squander -upon bad fits and bad taste, and are bowed down with -shame when they have to issue forth with her. I can -honestly say, and Edna will bear me out, that I gave -her money freely. No doubt the reason in part was I -found it so easy to make money that I was indifferent -to extravagance. But the chief reason, I believe, was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span> -Edna’s skill at dress. The woman who is physically -alluring to her husband, and who knows how to dress, -rarely has difficulty in getting money from him, though -he be a miser. But, gentle lady reader, can you in your -heart blame a man for grudging his earnings to a -woman who isn’t fit to dress and who doesn’t know how, -either?</p> - -<p>As I had begun to tell when I interrupted myself, I -was breakfasting alone the morning after that memorable -talk with Edna, and Margot came down to -glance in for a smile at me on her way to school.</p> - -<p>In theory Margot was still classed as a child, and -would be so classed for two years longer. In fact she -was, and had been for two years and more, a full-fledged -young lady. That is the way American children of the -rank for which my wife was training Margot are being -brought up nowadays. She had her own apartment, -dressing room and bath, sitting room, reception room—as -many rooms as my wife and I had altogether when -we began married life, and about four times the room. -As for luxury, a comparison would be ridiculous. Also -Margot had her own staff of servants—companion, -maid, maid’s assistant—and her own automobile with -chauffeur, used by no one else. It would be hard to find -more helpless creatures than these young aspirants to -aristocracy. And they prided themselves upon their ignorance -of the realities, and their mothers, often with hypocritical -pretense of distress, boasted it. At that time -I thought it amusing. The serious side of it was entirely -out of my range. We American men of the comfortable -and luxurious classes are addicted to the habit of regarding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span> -our wives and children as toys, as mere sources -of amusement not to be taken seriously. It isn’t strange -that the children should not mind this, but what a commentary -upon the real mentality of the women that they -tolerate and encourage it! Our women are always, -with a fine show of earnestness, demanding that they be -taken seriously. But woe unto the man who believes -them in earnest and tries to treat them as his equals -instead of as dainty toys, odalisques. How he will be -denounced, hated, and, if proper alimony can be got, -divorced!</p> - -<p>Margot’s parties differed in no respect from grown-up -parties, except that there were restrictions in the -matter of hours and also as to the serving of drinks. -For, I believe my wife did not follow the extreme of -fashionable custom, but forbade wines and punch at -these parties. In this matter, as in the matter of using -slang and in many others, she held that only people of -long-established social position, people with what is -called tradition, could safely make excursions beyond -the bounds of conventionality; that it was safest, wisest -for people like herself to stay well within the bounds, to -be prim even, and so to avoid any possible criticism as -vulgar. A very shrewd woman was Edna. If her intelligence -had been equal to her shrewdness and energy, -and if she had possessed a gleam of the sense of humor! -However——</p> - -<p>In no essential respect did Margot’s routine of life -differ from that of her mother—and her mother’s routine -of inane and worthless time-killing was modeled -exactly upon that of all the fashionable women and apers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span> -of fashionable women. Edna did a vast amount of -studying, with and without teachers. It was all shallow -and showy. Margot’s studies were also beneath contempt. -I amused myself from time to time by inquiring—with -pretense of gravity—into what they were -teaching her at the Ryper school for the turning out of -fashionable womanhood. Such a mess of trash! She -was learning much about social usages, from how to sit -in a carriage—a rare art that, I assure you, gentle -reader—to how to receive guests at a large dinner. -She was studying some of the vulgarities—science, history, -literature, and the like—but in no vulgar way. -She would get only the thinnest smatter of talkable stuff -about them—nothing “unsettling,” nothing that might -possibly rouse the mind to think or distract the attention -from the “high” things of life. She was dabbling -in music, in drawing, in several similar costly fripperies. -And the sum total of expense!—well, no wonder Miss -Ryper was fast becoming as rich as some of the asteroids -in the plutocracy she adored.</p> - -<p>I regarded Margot’s education as a species of -joke. It never occurred to me that our pretty baby -had the right to be educated to become a wife and a -mother. And why should it have occurred to me? -Where is that being done? Who is thinking of it? In -all the oceans of twaddle about the elevation of woman -where is there a drop of good sense about <i>real</i> education? -You say I was criminally negligent as to my -daughter’s education. But how about your own? The -truth is, we all still look upon education as a frill, an -ornament. We never think of it, whether for our sons<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span> -or for our daughters, as nothing more or less than -teaching a human being how to live. It is high time to -end this idiotic ignorant exaltation of tomfoolery into -culture!</p> - -<p>Poor Margot! How the little girls in plain clothes—and -machine-made underwear—must have envied her -as she swept along in her limousine, dressed with that -enormously costly simplicity which only the rich can afford. -No wonder many of the other girls at the Ryper -school hated her. For, her mother was in one respect -unlike most of the fashionable mothers who are too busy -doing things not worth doing to attend to their children. -Her mother gave her loving care, spent many hours—of -anxious thought, no doubt—in planning to make her the -most luxurious, the most helpless, the most envied girl -in the school. We hear unendingly about the good that -love does in the world. Not too much—no, indeed! -But at the same time might it not be well if we also -heard about the harm love can do—and does? How -many sons and daughters have been ruined by loving -parents! How many husbands have been wrecked by -the flatteries and the assiduities of loving wives! How -many wives have been lured to decay and destruction -by the over-indulgent love of their husbands! What we -need in this world is not more sentiment, but more intelligence. -Sentiment is a force that rushes far and -crazily in <i>both</i> directions, gentle reader, unless it has -well-balanced intelligence to guide it.</p> - -<p>Margot, smiling in the doorway of the breakfast -room, put me at once into a less somber humor. She -was tall and slim—an inch taller than her mother and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span> -with the same supple, well-proportioned figure. She had -her mother’s small, tip-tilted face and luminous eyes, -but they were of an intense dark gray that gave her -an expression of poetic thoughtfulness and mystery. -Whiter or more perfectly formed teeth I have never -seen. In former days children’s teeth were neglected. -But my wife, with her peculiar reach for all matters -having to do with appearances, had learned the modern -methods of caring for the body when Margot was still -in the period when the body is almost as formable as -sculptor’s clay. Thus Margot’s teeth had been looked -after and made perfect and kept so. Her hair hung -loose upon her shoulders like a wonderful changeable -veil of golden brown. Often at first glance you are -dazzled by these carefully fed and carefully groomed -children of the rich, only to note at the second glance -that the best showing has been made of precious little -in the way of natural charm. But this was not true of -Margot. The longer you looked, and the more attentively, -the finer she seemed to be—like a rare perfect -specimen from a connoisseur’s greenhouses. There’s no -doubt about it, Edna did know the physical side of life. -She would have got notable results even had we been -poor. As it was, with all the money she cared to spend, -she performed what looked like miracles.</p> - -<p>“Come and kiss me, Margot,” said I.</p> - -<p>She obeyed, with a charming air of restrained eagerness -that is regarded as ladylike. “My car is waiting,” -said she. “I’m late.”</p> - -<p>“Is that Therese”—her maid—“out in the hall -waiting to go with you?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span>“Yes. Miss Parnell”—her companion—“has a -headache, poor creature!”</p> - -<p>Margot had caught to perfection the refined, elegant, -fashionable tone of speaking of the servile classes. -Though I was in a critical mood that morning, I was -not critical of my beloved little Margot, and her airs -entertained me as much as ever. Said I:</p> - -<p>“Sit down, little duchess”—the familiar name -slipped out unconsciously—“and talk to me a few -minutes.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m shockingly late, papa,” pleaded she.</p> - -<p>“No matter. I’ll telephone Miss Ryper, if you -wish.” To the butler, who was serving me: “Sackville, -go tell Therese that I’m detaining Miss Margot. And -close the door behind you.”</p> - -<p>Sackville retired. Margot seated herself with alacrity. -She did not like her useless school any better than -other children like more or less useful schools. “Are -you taking me to the theater Saturday afternoon, as -you promised?” said she. “And do get a box and let -me ask two of the girls.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said I. “If I can’t go, Miss Parnell -will chaperon you.”</p> - -<p>“No, I want you, papa. It’s so nice to have a man.”</p> - -<p>“How are you getting on at school? Not with the -studies”—I laughed at the absurdity of calling her -fiddle-faddle studies—“but with the girls?”</p> - -<p>Her face clouded. “Has mamma told you?”</p> - -<p>“Told me what?”</p> - -<p>She hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Go on, dear,” said I. “What’s the trouble?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span>“Oh, it’s always the same thing,” she sighed, with -a grown-up air that was both humorous and pathetic. -“Some of the girls are down on me—about—about -social position. You see, we don’t go <i>socially</i> with their -families.”</p> - -<p>“Why should we?” said I. “We don’t know them -nor they us. Naturally, they don’t care anything about -us, nor we about them.”</p> - -<p>She hung her head. “But I want to go with them,” -said she doggedly.</p> - -<p>“Why?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Because—because—it’s the proper thing to do. If -you don’t go with them everybody looks down on you.” -She lifted her head, and her flashing eyes reminded me -of her mother. “It makes me just <i>wild</i> to be looked -down on.”</p> - -<p>“I should say so,” said I. “Those little girls at -Miss Ryper’s must be an ill-bred lot. We must take -you away from there and put you in a school with nice -girls.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, father!” she cried in a panic. “Those -girls are the <i>nicest</i>—the only nice girls in any school -in New York. All the other schools look up to ours. -I’d cry my eyes out in any other school.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I’d feel—<i>low</i>.” Her eyes had filled and her cheeks -were flushed. “I’d be out of place except among the -richest and most aristocratic girls.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t like them,” said I gently. I began -to feel a sensation of sickness at the heart.</p> - -<p>“I <i>hate</i> them!” cried she with passionate energy.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span> -“But I want to stay on there and <i>make</i> them be friendly -with me. I’ve got too much pride, papa, to run away.”</p> - -<p>“Pride,” said I, and my tone must have been sad. -“That isn’t pride, dear. You ought to choose your -friends by liking. You ought to feel above girls with -such cheap ideas.”</p> - -<p>“But I’m not above them,” protested she. “And -I couldn’t like any girl I’d be ashamed to be seen with, -unless she were a sort of servant. Oh, papa, you don’t -appreciate how proud I am.”</p> - -<p>“Proud of what, dear? Of your parents? Of yourself?”</p> - -<p>She hung her head.</p> - -<p>“Of what, dear?” I urged.</p> - -<p>“It hurts me not to be treated as—as the inside -clique of girls in our secret society treat each other.” -She was almost crying. “They don’t even call me by -my first name any more. They speak to me as Miss -Loring—and <i>so</i> politely—exactly as I speak to Miss -Parnell or one of the teachers or a servant. Oh, I’m -so proud! I’d love to be like Gracie Fortescue. She -speaks even to Miss Ryper as I would to Miss Parnell.”</p> - -<p>My digestion wasn’t any too good, even in those -days. My whole breakfast suddenly went wrong—turned -to poison inside me, I suppose. A hot wave of -rage against I knew not whom or what rolled up into -my brain. I pushed away my plate abruptly. “Run -along, child,” I said in a hoarse voice I did not recognize -as my own.</p> - -<p>She threw her arms round my neck with a gesture -and an expression that made me realize how close a copy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span> -of her mother she was. “You wouldn’t take me away -from my school, would you, papa dear?” she pleaded.</p> - -<p>“All I want is to make you happy,” said I, patting -and stroking that thick and lovely veil of flowing hair.</p> - -<p>She assumed that I meant she was to stay on with -the viperous Ryper brood, and went away almost happy. -She had awakened to the fact that there were fates -even worse than being snubbed and addressed like a -teacher or a companion or a servant or some other lower -animal—yes, far worse fates. For instance, not being -able to feel that she was, on whatever degrading terms, -at least associated with the adored fashionables.</p> - -<p>That evening when my wife again accompanied me -to my study, after dinner, I said to her:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been turning over our talk last night. I -haven’t been able to reach a conclusion as yet, except -on one point. I can’t help you socially in the way you -suggested.”</p> - -<p>I glanced at her as I said this. She was looking at -me. Her pale, intense expression fascinated me.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think you have thought about it fully,” -said she slowly.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, with my utmost deliberateness; “and -my decision is final.”</p> - -<p>She rose, stood beside her chair, rubbing her hand -softly along the top of the back. “Very well,” said -she quietly. And she left me alone.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[142]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">V</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> refusing Edna her heart’s desire thus promptly -and tersely I had an object. I assumed she would protest -and argue; in the discussion that would follow some -light might come to me, utterly befogged as to what -course to take about my family affairs. I knew something -should be done—something quick and drastic. -But what? It was no new experience to me to be faced -with complex and well-nigh impossible situations. My -business life had been a succession of such experiences. -And while I had learned much as to handling them, I -had also learned how dangerous it is to rush in recklessly -and to begin action before one has discovered what to -do—and what <i>not</i> to do. The world is full of Hasty -Hals and Hatties who pride themselves on their emergency -minds, on knowing just what to do in any situation -the instant it arises; and fine spectacles they are, -lying buried and broken amid the ruins they have aggravated -if not created.</p> - -<p>How recover my wife? How rescue my daughter? -I could think of no plan—of no beginning toward a -plan. And when Edna, by receiving my refusal in cold -silence, defeated my hope of a possibly illuminating discussion, -I did not know which way to turn.</p> - -<p>Why had I refused to help her in the way she suggested?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span> -Not on moral grounds, gentle reader. There -I should have been as free from scruple as you yourself -would have been, as you perhaps have been in your social -climbing or maneuvering in your native town, wherever -it is. Nor yet through fear of failure. I did not -know the social game, but I did know something of -human nature. And I had found out that the triumphant -class, far from being the gentlest and most civilized, -as its dominant position in civilization would indicate, -was in fact the most barbarous, was saturated -with the raw savage spirit of the right of might. I -am speaking of actualities, not of pretenses—of deeds, -not of words. To find a class approaching it in frank -savagery of will and action you would have to descend -through the social strata until you came to the class -that wields the blackjack and picks pockets and dynamites -safes. The triumphant class became triumphant -not by refinement and courtesy and consideration, but -by defiance of those fundamentals of civilization—by -successful defiance of them. It remained the triumphant -class by keeping that primal savagery of nature. As -soon as any member of it began to grow tame—gentle, -considerate, except where consideration for others would -increase his own wealth and power, became really a disciple -of the sweet gospel he professed and urged upon -others—just so soon did he begin to lose his wealth into -the strong unscrupulous hands ever reaching for it—and -with waning wealth naturally power and prestige -waned.</p> - -<p>No, I did not refuse because I thought the triumphant -class would contemptuously repel any attempt to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span> -carry its social doors by assault. I saw plainly enough -that I could compel enough of these society leaders to -receive my wife and daughters to insure their position. -You have seen swine gathered about a trough, comfortably -swilling; you have seen a huge porker come running -with angry squeal to join the banquet. You have -observed how rudely, how fiercely he is resented and -fought off by the others. This, until he by biting and -thrusting has made a place for himself; then the fact -that he is an intruder and the method of his getting a -place are forgotten, and the swilling goes peacefully -forward. So it is, gentle reader, though it horrifies your -hypocrisy to be told it, so do human beings conduct -themselves round a financial or political or social swill -trough. I should have had small difficulty in biting and -kicking a satisfactory place for Edna and Margot at -the social swill trough; I should have had no difficulty -at all in keeping it for them. But——</p> - -<p>You will be incredulous, gentle reader, devoured of -snobbishness and dazzled by what you have heard and -read of the glories of fashionable society in the metropolis. -You will be incredulous, because you, too, -like the overwhelming majority of the comfortable -classes in this great democracy—and many of the not -so comfortable classes as well—because you, too, are -infected of the mania for looking about for some one -who refuses to associate with you on the ground that -you are “common,” and for straightway making it -your heart’s dearest desire to compel that person to -associate with you. You will be incredulous when I -tell you my sole reason was my hatred and horror of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span> -what seemed to me the degrading, vulgar, and rotten -longings that filled my wife and that had infected my -daughter. That hatred and horror had thrown me -into a state of mind I did not dare confess to myself. -You are incredulous; but perhaps you will admit I may -be truthful when I explain that the reason for my moral -and sentimental revolt was perhaps in large part my -dense ignorance of the whole society side of life.</p> - -<p>No doubt in the Passaic public school of my boyhood -there had been as much snobbishness as there is -in Fifth Avenue. But I had somehow never happened -to notice it. It must have been there; it must be elemental -in human nature; how else account for my wife? -We hear more about the snobbishness of Fifth Avenue -than we do about the snobbishness of the tenements. -But that is solely because Fifth Avenue is more conspicuous. -Also, Fifth Avenue, supposedly educated, -supposedly broadened by knowledge and taste, has no -excuse for petty vanities that belong only to the ignorant. -And if Fifth Avenue were really educated, really -had knowledge and taste, it could not be snobbish. -However, my busy life had never been touched by social -snobbishness. I preferred to know and to associate -with men better educated and richer than I, but for -excellent practical reasons—because from such men I -could get the knowledge and the wealth I needed. But -I would not have wasted a moment of my precious time -upon the men most exalted in fashionable life—the ignorant -incompetents who had inherited their wealth. -They seemed ridiculous and worthless to me, a man of -thought and action.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>So, the sudden exposure of my wife’s and my little -girl’s disease gave me a shock hardly to be measured -by the man or woman used all his life to the social -craze. It was much as if I had suddenly seen upon -their bared bosoms the disgusting ravages of cancer.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As I could not devise any line of action that, however -faintly, promised results, I kept away from home. -I absorbed myself in some new enterprises that filled -my evenings, which I spent at my club with the men -I drew into them. At the mention of club, gentle -reader, I see your ears pricking. You are wondering -what sort of club <i>I</i> belonged to. I shall explain.</p> - -<p>It was the Amsterdam Club. You may have seen -and gawked at its vast and imposing red sandstone -front in middle Fifth Avenue. As you drove by in the -“rubber-neck” wagon, the man with the megaphone -may have shouted: “The Amsterdam Club, otherwise -known as the Palace of Plutocracy. The total wealth -of its members is one tenth of the total wealth of the -United States. Every great millionaire in New York -City belongs to it. The reason you see no one in the -magnificent windows is because the plutocrats are afraid -of cranks with pistol or bomb.” And you stared and -envied and craned your neck backward as the sight-seeing -car rolled on. A fairly accurate description -of my club. But you will calm as I go on to tell -you the inside truth about it. It was built to provide -a club for those rich men of New York who had no -social position, and so could not be admitted to the -fashionable clubs. It was not built by those outcasts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span> -for whom it was intended, but by the rich men of the -fashionable world. They did not build it out of pity -nor yet out of generosity, but for freedom and convenience.</p> - -<p>You must know that the rich, both the fashionables -and the excludeds, are intimately associated in business. -Now, in the days before the Amsterdam Club, if a rich -fashionable wished to talk business out of office hours -with a rich unfashionable, he had to take him to his -home or to his club, one or the other. You will readily -appreciate that either course involved disagreeable complications. -The rich unfashionable would say: “Why -am I not invited to this snob’s house <i>socially</i>? Why -does not this hound see that I am elected to his elegant -club? I’ll teach this wrinkle-snout how to spit at me. -I’ll slip a stiletto into his back, damn him.” As the -number of rich unfashionables increased, as the number -of stealthy financial stilettoings for social insult grew -and swelled, the demand for a “way out” became more -clamorous and panicky. The final result was the Amsterdam -Club—perhaps by inspiration, perhaps by accident. -And so it has come to pass that now, when a -rich fashionable wishes to talk finance with a rich pariah, -he does not have to run the risk of defiling his home or -his exclusive club. With the gracious cordiality wherefor -aristocracy is famed in song and story, he says: -“Let us go to <i>our</i> club”—for, the rich fashionables see -to it that every rich pariah is elected to the Amsterdam -immediately he becomes a person of financial consequence. -And I fancy that not one in ten of the rich -pariah members dreams how he is being insulted and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span> -tricked. All, or nearly all, imagine they are elected by -favor of the great fashionable plutocrats to about the -most exclusive club in New York. Also, not one in a -dozen of the fashionable members appreciates how he is -degrading himself—for, to my quaint mind, the snob -degrades only himself.</p> - -<p>Well! Not many months after we moved from -Brooklyn to Manhattan I was elected to the Amsterdam—I, -in serene ignorance of the trick that was being -played upon me by my sponsors, associates in large -financial deals and members of several exclusive really -fashionable clubs. They pulled regretful faces as they -talked of the “long waiting lists at most of the clubs.” -They brightened as they spoke of the Amsterdam—“the -finest and, take it all round, the most satisfactory -of the whole bunch, old man. And we believe we’ve got -pull enough to put you in there pretty soon. We’ll -work it, somehow.” If I had known the shrivel-hearted -trick behind their genial friendliness, I should not have -minded, should probably have laughed. For, human littlenesses -do not irritate me; and I have a vanity—I -prefer to call it a pride—that lifts me out of their -reach. I am of the one aristocracy that is truly exclusive, -the only one that needs no artificial barriers -to keep it so. But I shall not bore you, gentle reader, -by explaining about it. You are interested only in the -aristocracies of rank and title and wealth that are nothing -but the tawdry realization of the tawdry fancies of -the yokel among his kine and the scullery maid among -her pots. For, who but a tossed-up yokel or scullery -maid would indulge in such vulgarities as sitting upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span> -a gold throne or living in a draughty, cheerless palace -or seeking to make himself more ridiculous by aggravating -his littleness with a title, like the ass in the lion’s -skin? Did it ever occur to you, gentle reader, that -aristocracy is essentially common, essentially vulgar? -To a large vision the distinction between king and -carpenter, between the man with a million dollars and -the million men with one dollar looks trivial and unimportant. -Only a squat and squinting soul in a cellar -and blinking through the twilight could discover agitating -differences of rank between Fifth Avenue and -Grand Street, between first floor front and attic rear, -between flesh ripening to rot in silk and flesh ripening -to rot in cotton. To an infinitesimal insect an -infinite gulf yawns between the molecules of a razor’s -edge.</p> - -<p>I often found my club a convenience, for in those -busiest days of my financial career I had much private -conferring—or conspiring, if you choose. Never had -I found it so convenient as when for the first time there -was pain and shrinking at the thought of going home, -of seeing my wife and Margot. My Margot! When -she was a baby how proudly I had wheeled her along -the sidewalks of Passaic in the showy perambulator we -bought for her—and the twenty-five dollars it cost -loomed mighty big even to Edna. And in Brooklyn, -what happy Sundays Edna and I had had with her, -when I would hire a buggy at the livery stable round -the corner and we would go out for the day to some -Long Island woods; or when we would take her down -to the respectable end of Coney Island to dig in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[150]</span> -sand and to wade after the receding tide. My Margot! -No longer mine; never again to be mine.</p> - -<p>One evening I had an appointment at the Amsterdam -with a Western millionaire, Charles Murdock, whom -I had interested in a Canada railway to tap a Hudson -Bay spruce forest. He was having trouble with his -wife and something of it had come out in the afternoon -newspapers. At the last moment his secretary—who, -by the way, afterwards married the divorced Mrs. Murdock—telephoned -that Murdock could not keep his engagement -to dine. I looked about for some one to -help me eat the dinner I had ordered. There are never -many disengaged men in the Amsterdam. The fashionable -rich come only when they have business with the -pariahs. The pariahs prefer their own houses or the -barrooms and cafés of the big hotels. I therefore -thought myself lucky when I found Bob Armitage -sulking in a huge leather chair and got him to share -my dinner. Armitage was one of my railway directors. -He had helped me carry through the big stroke that -made me, had joined in half a dozen of my enterprises -in all of which I had been successful. There was no -man of my acquaintance I knew and liked so well as -Armitage. Yet it had so happened that we had never -talked much with each other, except about business.</p> - -<p>It promised to be a silent dinner. He was as deep -in his thoughts as I was in mine—and our faces showed -that neither of us was cogitating anything cheerful. -On impulse I suddenly said:</p> - -<p>“Bob, do you know about fashionable New York -society?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>I knew that he did; that is to say, I had often -heard he was one of the heavy swells, having all three -titles to fashion—wealth, birth, and marriage. But I -now pretended ignorance of the fact; when you wish -to inform yourself thoroughly on a subject you should -always select an expert, tell him you know nothing and -bid him enlighten you from the alphabet up.</p> - -<p>“Why do you ask?” said Armitage. “Do you -want to get in? I had a notion you didn’t care for -society—you and your wife.”</p> - -<p>Armitage didn’t go to Holy Cross, but to St. Bartholomew’s. -So he had never known of my wife’s activities, -knew only the sort of man I was.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I forgot,” he went on. “You’ve a daughter -almost grown. I suppose you want her looked after. -All right. I’ll attend to it for you. Your wife won’t -mind my wife’s calling? I’d have sent her long ago—in -fact, I apologize for not having done it. But I -hate the fashionable crowd. They bore me. However, -your wife may like them. Women usually do.”</p> - -<p>It was at my lips to thank him and decline his -offer. Then it flashed into my mind that perhaps my -one hope of getting back my wife and daughter, of -restoring them to sanity, lay in letting them have what -they wanted. Another sort of man might have deluded -himself with the notion that he could set his foot down, -stamp out revolt, compel his family to do as he willed. -But I happen not to be of that instinctively tyrannical -and therefore inherently stupid temperament.</p> - -<p>Armitage ate in silence for a few moments, then -said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>“I’ll have you elected to the Federal Club.”</p> - -<p>“This club is all I need,” said I.</p> - -<p>He smiled sardonically. I didn’t understand that -smile then, because I didn’t know anything about caste -in New York. “You let me look after you,” said he. -“You’re a child in the social game.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve no objection to remaining so,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Quite right. There’s nothing in it,” said he. -“But you must remember you’re living in a world of -rather cheap fools, and they are impressed by that -nothing. On the other side of the Atlantic the social -prizes have a large substantial value. Over here the -value’s small. Still it’s something. You wouldn’t refuse -even a trading stamp, would you?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “I refuse nothing,” said I. “I take -whatever’s offered me. If I find I don’t want it, why, -what’s easier than to throw it away?”</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll put you in the Federal Club. You could -have made me do it, if you had happened to want it. -So, why shouldn’t I do it anyhow, in appreciation -of your forbearance? You don’t realize, but I’m -doing for you what about two thirds of the members -of this club would lick my boots to get me to do -for them.”</p> - -<p>“I had no idea the taste for shoe polish was so general -here,” said I.</p> - -<p>“It’s a human taste, my dear Loring,” replied he. -“It’s as common as the taste for bread. All the men -have it. As for the women they like nothing so well. -Having one’s boots licked is the highest human joy. -Next comes licking boots.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>“You don’t believe that?” said I, for his tone was -almost too bitter for jest.</p> - -<p>“You aren’t acquainted with your kind, old man,” -retorted he.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know the kind you know,” said I. And -then I remembered my wife and my daughter. There -must be truth in what Armitage had said; for, my -beautiful wife and my sweet daughter, both looking -so proud—surely they could not be rare exceptions -in their insensibility to what seemed to me elemental -self-respect.</p> - -<p>“You don’t know your kind,” he went on, “because -you don’t indulge in cringing and don’t encourage it. -You’re like the cold, pure-minded woman who goes -through the world imagining it a chaste and austere -place because her very face silences and awes sensuality. -You are part of the small advance guard of a race that -is to come.” He grinned satirically. “Perhaps you’ll -drop out in the next few months. We’ll see.”</p> - -<p>When the silence was again broken, it was broken -by me. “Do you know a school kept by a woman named -Ryper?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“Sure I do,” replied he. He gave me a shrewd -laughing glance. “The daughter isn’t learning anything?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing but mischief,” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s what Ryper’s for. But what does it matter? -Why should a woman learn anything? They’re -of no consequence. The less a man has to do with them -the better off he will be.”</p> - -<p>“They’re of the highest consequence,” said I bitterly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span> -“They have the control of the coming generation.”</p> - -<p>“And a hell of a generation it’s to be,” cried he, -suddenly rousing from the state of bored apathy in -which he seemed to pass most of his time. “You’ve got -me started on the subject that’s a craze with me. I -have only one strong feeling—and that is my contempt -for woman—the American woman. I’m not speaking -about the masses. They don’t count. They never did. -They never will. No one counts until he gets some education -and some property. I suppose the women of -the masses do as well as could be expected. But how -about the women of the classes with education and property? -Do you know why the world advances so slowly?—why -the upper classes are always tumbling back and -everything has to be begun all over again?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve a suspicion,” said I. “Because the men are -fools about the women.”</p> - -<p>“The sex question!” cried Armitage. “That’s -the only question worth agitating about. Until it’s -settled—or begins to be settled—and settled right, it’s -useless to attempt anything else. The men climb up. -The women they take on their backs become a heavier -and heavier burden—and down they both drop—and -the children with them. Selfish, vain, extravagant mothers, -crazy about snobbishness, bringing up their children -in extravagance, ignorance and snobbishness—that’s -America to-day!”</p> - -<p>“The men are fools about the women, and they let -the women make fools of themselves.”</p> - -<p>“The men are fools—but not about the women,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span> -said Armitage. “How much time and thought for -your family have you averaged daily in the last ten -years?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been busy,” said I. “I’ve had to look out -for the bread and butter, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly!” exclaimed he, in triumph. “You -think you’re fond of your family. No doubt you are. -But the bottom truth is you’re indifferent to your family. -I can prove it in a sentence: You attend to anything -you care about; and you haven’t attended to -them.”</p> - -<p>I stared at him like a man dazzled by a sudden -light—which, in fact, I was.</p> - -<p>“Guilty or not guilty?” said he, laughing.</p> - -<p>“Guilty,” said I.</p> - -<p>“The American man, too busy to be bothered, -turns the American woman loose—gives her absolute -freedom. And what is she? A child in education, a -child in experience, a child in taste. He turns her -loose, bids her do as she likes—and, up to the limit of -his ability gives her all the money she wants. He prefers -her a child. Her childishness rests his tired brain. -And he doesn’t mind if she’s a little mischievous—that -makes her more amusing.”</p> - -<p>“You are married—have children,” said I, too -serious to bother about tact. “How is it with you?”</p> - -<p>He laughed cynically. “Don’t speak of my family,” -said he. “I tried the other way. But I’ve given -up—several years ago. What can <i>one</i> do in a crazy -crowd?”</p> - -<p>“Not much,” confessed I, deeply depressed.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[156]</span>“The women stampede each other,” he went on. -“Besides, no American woman—none that I know—has -been brought up with education enough to enable -her to make a life for herself, even when the man tries -to help her. To like an occupation, to do anything -at it, you’ve got to understand it. Being a husband -and father is an occupation, the most important one -in the world for a man. Being a wife and mother is -an occupation—the most important one in the world -for a woman. Are American men and women brought -up to those occupations—trained in them—prepared -for them? The most they know is a smatter at the -pastime of lover and mistress—and they’re none too -adept at that.”</p> - -<p>“I believe,” said I, “that in my whole life I’ve -never learned so much in so short a time.”</p> - -<p>“It’ll do you no good to have learned,” rejoined -Armitage. “It will only make you sad or bitter, according -to your mood. Or, perhaps some day you -may reach my plane of indifference—and be amused.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing is hopeless,” said I.</p> - -<p>“The American woman is hopeless,” said he. -“Her vanity is triple-plated, copper-riveted. She’s -hopeless so long as the American man will give her the -money to buy flattery at home and abroad; for, so long -as you can buy flattery, you never find out the truth -about yourself. And the American man will give her -the money as long as he can, because it buys him peace -and freedom. He doesn’t want to be bothered with the -American woman—except when he’s in a certain mood -that doesn’t last long.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>“There are exceptions,” said I—not clear as to -what I meant.</p> - -<p>“Yes—there are exceptions,” said he. “There -are American men who spend time with the American -woman. And what does she do to them? Look at the -poor asses!—neglecting their business, letting their -minds go to seed. They don’t make her wise. She -makes them foolish—as foolish as herself—and her -children.”</p> - -<p>You may perhaps imagine into what a state this -talk of Armitage’s threw me. He was talking generalities. -But every word he spoke went straight home to -me. He had torn the coverings from my inmost family -life, had exposed its soul, naked and ugly, to my fascinated -gaze.</p> - -<p>He finished dinner, lighted a cigarette—sat back -watching me with a mysterious smile, half amused, -wholly sympathetic, upon his handsome face, younger -than his forty-five years—for he was considerably -older than I. I was hardly more than barely conscious -of that look of his, or of his presence. Suddenly I -struck my fist with violence upon the arm of my chair. -And I said:</p> - -<p>“I <i>will</i> do something! It is <i>not</i> hopeless!”</p> - -<p>He shook his head slowly, at the same time exhaling -a cloud of smoke. “I tried, Godfrey,” said he, -“and I had a better chance of success than you could -possibly have. For my wife had been brought up by a -sensible father and mother in a sensible way, and she -had been used to fashionable society all her life and, -when I married her, seemed to have proved herself immune.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span> -A few years and—” His cynical smile may -not have been genuine. “She leads the simpletons. -But you’ll see for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“When you know what to do, and feel as you do,” -said I, “why did you suggest our going into your -society?”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t mine,” laughed he. “It’s my wife’s. It -doesn’t belong to the men. It belongs to the women.”</p> - -<p>“Into your wife’s society?” persisted I.</p> - -<p>“Why did I suggest it? Because I wished to -please you, and I know you like to please your wife. -And she’s an American woman—therefore, society -mad. She has her daughter at the Ryper joint, hasn’t -she?”</p> - -<p>I sat morosely silent.</p> - -<p>“Oh, come now! Cheer up!” cried he, with laughing -irony. “After all, you can’t blame the American -woman. She has no training for the career of woman. -She has no training for any serious career. She’s got -to do something, hasn’t she? Well, what is there open -to her but the career of lady? That doesn’t call for -brains or for education or for taste. The dressmaker -and milliner supply the toilet. The architect and decorator -and housekeeper and staff supply the grand background. -Father or husband supplies the cash. A dip -into a novel or book of culture essays supplies the gibble-gabble. -A nice easy profession, is lady—and universally -admired and envied. No, Loring, it isn’t fair -to blame her.”</p> - -<p>We strolled down Fifth Avenue. After he had -watched the stream of elegant carriages and automobiles,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span> -some of the too elegant automobiles having their -interiors brightly lighted that the passersby might not -fail to see the elaborate toilets of the occupants—after -he had observed this procession of extravagance and -vanity, with only an occasional derisive laugh or -“Look there! Don’t miss that lady!” he burst out -again in his pleasantly ironical tone:</p> - -<p>“How fat the women are getting!—the automobile -women! And how the candy shops are multiplying. -Candy and automobiles!—and culture. Let us not forget -culture.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said I grimly. “Let’s not forget -the culture.”</p> - -<p>“I was telling my wife yesterday,” said Armitage, -“what culture is. It is talking in language that means -nothing about things that mean less than nothing. But -watch the ladies stream by, all got up in their gorgeous -raiment and jewels. What have they ever done, -what are they doing, that entitles them to so much more -than their poor sisters scuffling along on the sidewalk -here?”</p> - -<p>“They’ve talked and are talking about culture,” -said I. “And don’t forget charity.”</p> - -<p>“Ah—charity!” cried he gayly. “Thank you. I -see we understand each other.” He linked his arm affectionately -in mine. “Charity! It’s the other half -of a lady’s occupation. Charity! Having no fancy -for attending to her own business, she meddles in the -business of the poor, tempting them to become liars -and paupers. Your fine lady is a professional patronizer. -She has no usefulness to contribute to the world.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span> -So, she patronizes—the arts with her culture—the -poor with her charity, and the human race with her -snobbishness.”</p> - -<p>He was so amused by his train of thought that he -lapsed into silence the more fully to enjoy it; for, every -thought has its shadings that cannot be expressed in -words yet give the keenest enjoyment. When he spoke -again, it was to repeat:</p> - -<p>“And what have these ladies done to entitle them -to this luxury? Are they, perchance, being paid for -giving to the world, and for inspiring, the noble sons -and daughters who drive coaches and marry titles?”</p> - -<p>“But what do we men do? What do <i>I</i> do—that -entitles me to so much more than that chap perched -on the hansom? I often think of it. Don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Never,” laughed Armitage. “I never claw my -own sore spots. There’s no fun in that. Always claw -the other fellow’s. There’s a laugh and distraction for -your own troubles in seeing him wince.”</p> - -<p>“Is that why you’ve been clawing mine?” said I.</p> - -<p>We were pausing before his big house, at the corner -of the Avenue. “If I have been I didn’t know it,” -said he. He glanced up at his windows with a satirical -smile. “This evening I’ve been breaking my rule and -clawing at my own.” He put out his hand. “Let the -social business take its course,” advised he with impressive -friendliness. “You and I can’t make the world -over. To fight against the inevitable merely increases -everyone’s discomfort.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you’re right,” said I.</p> - -<p>I agreed with his conclusion that it was best to let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span> -things alone, though I reached that conclusion by a -different route. I had in mind my forlorn hope of good -results from a homeopathic treatment. I saw how impossible -it was to undo the practically completed training -of a grown girl. I appreciated the absurdity of -an attempt radically to change Edna’s character—an -absurdity as great as an attempt to make her a foot -taller or to alter the color of her eyes. The one hope, -it seemed to me—and I still think I was right—was -that, when they had social position, when there should -no longer be excuse for fretting lest some one were -thinking them common, they might calm down toward -some sort of sanity.</p> - -<p>Bear in mind, please, that at the time I did not -have the situation, nor any idea of it, and of how to -deal with it, definitely and clearly in mind. I was -groping, was seeing dimly, was not even sure that I -saw at all. I was like a thousand other busy American -men who, after years of absorption in affairs, are -abruptly and rudely awakened to the fact that there -is something wrong at home where they had been flattering -themselves everything was all right.</p> - -<p>The things Armitage had said occupied my mind, -almost to the exclusion of my business. The longer -I revolved them, the better I understood the situation -at home. I could not but wonder what wretched catastrophe -in his domestic life had made him so insultingly -bitter against women. I felt that he was unfair to -them; any judgment that condemned a class for possessing -universal human weakness must be unfair. At -the same time I believed he had excuse for being unfair—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span> -excuse of a man whose domestic life is in -ruins. I began to see toward the bottom of the woman -question—the nature and the cause of the crisis -through which women were passing.</p> - -<p>The modern world, as I had read history enough -to know, had suddenly and completely revolutionized -the conditions of life. The male sex, though poorly -where at all equipped to meet the new conditions, still -was compelled to meet them after a fashion. A river -that for ages has moved quietly along in a deep bed, -all in a night swells to many times its former size and -plays havoc with the surrounding country. That was -a fairly good figure for the new life science and machinery -had suddenly forced upon the human race. -The men living in the inundated region—where floods -were unknown, where appliances, even ideas for combating -them did not exist—the men, hastily, hysterically, -incompetently, but with resolution and persistence, -because forced by dire necessity, would proceed -to deal with that vast new river. Just so were the men -of our day dealing with the life of steam and electricity, -of ancient landmarks of religion and morality swept -away or shifted, of ancient industrial and social relations -turned upside down and inside out. The men -were coping with the situation after a fashion. But -the women?</p> - -<p>These unfortunate creatures, faced with the new -conditions, were in their greater ignorance and incapacity -and helplessness, trying to live as if nothing -had occurred!—as if the old order still existed. And -the men, partly through ignorance, partly through preoccupation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[163]</span> -with the new order, partly through indifference -and contempt veiled as consideration for the -weaker sex, were encouraging them in their fatal folly. -Was it strange that the women were deceived, remained -unconscious of their peril? No, it was on the contrary -inevitable. When men, though working away under -and at the new conditions, still talked as if the old conditions -prevailed, when preachers still preached that -way, and orators still eulogized the thing that was -dead and buried as if it lived and reigned, when in order -to find out the change you had to disregard the -speech, the professions, the confident assertions of all -mankind and observe closely their actions only—when -there was this universal unawareness and unpreparedness, -how could the poor women be condemned?</p> - -<p>I could not but admit to myself that in his account -of the doings of the women Armitage was only slightly -if at all exaggerating. But with my more judicial -temperament that had won me fortune and leadership -while hardly more than a youth, I could not join him -in damning the women for their folly and idleness and -uselessness.</p> - -<p>So, the immediate result of Armitage’s talk was a -gentler and thoroughly tolerant frame of mind toward -my wife, both as to herself and as to what she had done -to our daughter. After all, I had for wife only the -typical woman—and a rarely sweet and charming example -of the type. And my daughter was no worse, -perhaps was better, than the average girl of her age -and position. What did I think I had—or ought to -have—in the way of wife and daughter, anyhow?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span> -What was this vague, sentimental dream of family life? -If I were by some magic to find myself possessed of the -sort of family I thought I wanted, wouldn’t I be more -dissatisfied than at present? When I had a wife and -a daughter who <i>looked</i> so well and did nothing but -what everyone around me regarded as right and -proper, was I not unjust in my discontent?</p> - -<p>I had not seen Edna or Margot for several days before -my talk with Bob Armitage. I did not see Edna -for several days afterwards, though I dined at home -every evening and did not go out after dinner. I was -debating how to make overtures toward a reconciliation -when she came into my study. She had an air of -coldness and constraint—the air of the woman who is -inflicting severe punishment upon an offending husband -by withholding herself from him. She said:</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Robert Armitage has asked me to dine on -Thursday evening.”</p> - -<p>I replied hesitatingly: “Thursday— I’ve an engagement -for Thursday—a dinner.”</p> - -<p>In her agitation she did not note that I had not -finished. Dropping her coldness, she flashed out -fiercely:</p> - -<p>“We’ve simply <i>got</i> to accept! It’s our chance. -We may not have it again. It’s what I’ve been waiting -for ever since we moved to this house. And I can’t go -alone. Oh, how selfish you are! You never think of -anything but your own comfort. And you can’t or -won’t realize any of the higher things of life for which -I’m striving. It is too horrible!”</p> - -<p>If any male reader of this story has known a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span> -woman who was, up to a certain time, always able to -rouse a strong emotion in him—of love or anger, of -pleasure or pain—a woman toward whom he could not -be lukewarm, and if that reader can recall the day on -which he faced that woman in a situation of stress and -found himself calm and patient and kind toward -her——</p> - -<p>I was surprised to find that Edna was not moving -me. Her loveliness did not stir a single tiny flame of -passion. Her abuse did not excite resentment or dread. -“Just a moment, my dear,” said I with the tranquillity -of a judge. “I was trying to say that I would break -my engagement.”</p> - -<p>I saw that she did not believe me but imagined her -outburst had terrified and cowed me into submission. -How dispassionately I observed and judged!</p> - -<p>“Accept, if you wish,” I went on. “I like Armitage. -We’ve been friends for years.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you tell me so?” demanded she. -“Why have you been plotting against me all this -time?”</p> - -<p>“You forbade me to speak of business,” said I. -“So I have never spoken of my business friends.”</p> - -<p>Her anger against me was almost beyond control. -If she had been a lady born, if she had not had a past -to live down, a childhood of vulgar surroundings and -actions, she would have given way and abused like a -fish wife. A lady born dares excesses of passion that -a made lady, with her deep reverence for the ladylike, -would shrink from. She said through clinched teeth:</p> - -<p>“I find out that Mrs. Armitage, the leader of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span> -younger set, the most fashionable woman in New York, -has been eager to know me for a long time. And <i>you</i> -have been preventing it!”</p> - -<p>“How?” said I, amused, but not showing it.</p> - -<p>“She called here the other day. She was as friendly -as could be. We became friends at once. She said -that for months she had been at her husband to get -her leave to call on me, but that he and you, between -you, had neglected to arrange it.”</p> - -<p>I saw how this notion of the matter delighted her, -and that the truth would enrage her, would make her -dislike me more than ever. So, I held my peace and -thought, for the first time, I believe, how tiresome a -woman without a sense of humor could become—how -tryingly tiresome.</p> - -<p>“She and I are going to do a lot of things together,” -continued Edna in the same intense humorless -way. “I always knew that if I got a chance to talk -with one of those women who could appreciate me, I’d -have no further trouble. I knew I was wasting time -on those religious fakirs and frumps, but I was always -hoping that through them I’d somehow meet a woman -of my own sort. Now I’ve met her, and something tells -me I’ll have no further trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Probably you’re right,” said I.</p> - -<p>“How it infuriates me,” she went on, “to think -I’d have been spared all the humiliations and heartaches -I’ve suffered, if you had used your influence with -Robert Armitage months—years ago. But no—you -don’t want me to get on. You wanted to stick in the -mud. So I had to suffer—and Margot, too.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span>“Well, it’s all right now,” said I, probably as indifferently -as I felt. Why had God seen fit to create -women without the sense of humor? Perhaps to -save men from falling altogether under their rule.</p> - -<p>“The sufferings of that poor child!” cried Edna. -“And the very day after Mrs. Armitage came, Gracie -Fortescue asked her to a party, and all the girls have -taken her up. Gracie Fortescue is a niece of Hilda -Armitage. Her brother married a Fortescue.”</p> - -<p>“Really?” said I. “And Margot is happy?”</p> - -<p>“No thanks to you,” retorted Edna sourly.</p> - -<p>“Well, plunge in, my dear,” said I, beginning to examine -the papers before me on the desk. “Only—spare -me as much as possible. I need all my time and strength -for my work.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ll have to go with me to dinners, and to -the opera occasionally. I can’t do this thing altogether -alone.”</p> - -<p>“Say I’m an invalid. Say I’m away. They don’t -want me, anyhow. Armitage doesn’t go with his wife.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s different,” cried she in a fever. “<i>She</i> -has always had social position. It doesn’t matter if -people do talk scandal about her. <i>I</i> can’t afford to -cause gossip.”</p> - -<p>“Why should they gossip? But no matter. I -don’t want to worry with that—that higher life, let us -call it. Or to be worried with it. Do the best you -can for me. I’m a man’s man—always have been—always -shall be. If you’ve got to have a man to take -you about, dig up one somewhere. I’m willing to pay -him well.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[168]</span>“Always money!” exclaimed she in deep disgust.</p> - -<p>I laughed. “Not a bad thing, money,” said I.</p> - -<p>“It would never have got me Mrs. Armitage’s -friendship,” said she loftily.</p> - -<p>“You think so?” said I amiably. “All right, if -it pleases you. But—take my advice, my dear—enjoy -yourself to the limit with highfaluting <i>talk</i> about the -worthlessness of money and that sort of rot. But don’t -for a minute lose your point of view and convince -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God I’ve got a vein of refinement, of idealism -in my nature,” said Edna. “I wouldn’t have as -sordid an opinion of human nature as you have for anything -in the world.”</p> - -<p>“You can afford not to have it, my dear,” said I. -“So long as I know the truth, and so make the necessary -money to keep us going, you are free to indulge -your lovely delusions. Have your beautiful, unmercenary -friendship with Mrs. Armitage and the other -ladies. I’ll continue to make it financially worth their -husbands’ while to encourage the friendships.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so!” cried she. “You believe Mrs. -Armitage has taken me up for business reasons.”</p> - -<p>“If you had been some poor woman—” I began -mildly.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be absurd!” cried my wife. “How could -there be an equal and true friendship between Mrs. -Armitage and a woman with none of the surroundings -of a lady, and with no means of gratifying the tastes -of a lady? But that doesn’t mean that Mrs. Armitage -is a low, sordid woman. She has a beautiful nature.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span> -Money is merely the background of high society. It -simply gives ladies and gentlemen the opportunity to -set the standards of dress and manners and taste. And -of course they’re careful whom they associate with. -Who wants to be annoyed by adventurers and climbers -and all sorts of dreadful mercenary, self-seeking -people?”</p> - -<p>“Who, indeed?” said I.</p> - -<p>It gently appealed to my sense of the ridiculous, to -see my wife thus changed in a twinkling into a defender -and exponent of fashionable society. It was so deliciously -feminine, as fantastically humorless, her sincere -belief in the poppycock she was reeling off—the twaddle -with which Mrs. Armitage had doubtless stuffed her. -The sordidness, the vulgarity, the meanness, the petty -cruelty, the snobbishness of fashionable people—all forgotten -in a moment, hastily covered deep with the gilt -and the tinsel of hypocritical virtues. What an amusing -ass the human animal is! How stupidly unconscious -of its own motives! How eagerly it attributes to -itself all kinds of high motives for the ordinary, or -scrubby, or downright mean actions—and attributes -the same motives to its fellow asses, to make its own -pretenses the more plausible! An amusing ass—but it -would be more amusing if it were not so monotonously -solemn, but laughed at itself occasionally.</p> - -<p>However——</p> - -<p>The atmosphere of our home now steadily improved. -The servants began to respect us, where they had despised -and had scarcely troubled themselves to conceal -their contempt. The cook sent up more attractive—though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span> -I fear even less digestible—dishes. The butler -addressed me with a gratifying servility. The maids -developed unexpected talents, showing acquaintance with -the needs and customs of a fashionable household. The -housekeeper’s soul dropped from its theretofore insolently -erect posture to all fours, and she attended to -her duties. Edna became sweet and gracious. Margot -grew merry and affectionate. All the result of Mrs. -Armitage. We had been pariahs; we were of the elect.</p> - -<p>I saw and felt the change distinctly at the time. -But it is only in retrospect that I take the full measure—get -its full humor—and pathos.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>That Armitage dinner was <i>the</i> event of Edna’s life. -She had been born; she had married; she had given -birth—all memorable and important occurrences. But -this formal début in fashionable society topped them -as the peak tops the foothills. Having seen her quivering -and hysterical excitement when we were leaving -the house, I feared a breakdown. I marveled at her -apparent calmness and ease as we entered the dining -room of the Armitages. Never had she looked so well. -If Mrs. Armitage had not been a self-satisfied beauty -of the dark type she might have demolished Edna’s -dream in its very realizing. But no doubt Edna, the -shrewd, had duly measured Hilda Armitage and had discovered -that it was safe to make her proud of the woman -she had taken under protection and patronage.</p> - -<p>There were but a dozen people in all at the dinner. -It did not seem to be much of an affair. The drawing-room -was plain—nothing gaudy, nothing costly looking.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span> -Our own dining room was much grander—to our -then uneducated taste. The guests were—just people—simple, -good-natured mortals, perfectly at their ease -and putting us at our ease. You would have wondered, -after five minutes of that company, how anyone could -possibly find any difficulty in getting intimately acquainted -with them. But, as Edna knew at a glance, -she and I were in the midst of the innermost and smallest -circle of the many circles one within another that -make up New York fashionable society. If on the -recommendation of the Armitages we should have the -good fortune to be accepted by that circle of circles, -that circle within the circles, there would be nothing -of a social nature left for us to conquer in New York. -I was ignorant of all this at the time; had I known, -I imagine I should have remained tranquil. But Edna -knew at a glance; she had been studying these matters -for years. It shows what force of character she had -that she conducted herself as if it were the most ordinary -and familiar occasion of her life. She had always -said, even away back in the days of the grand forty-dollars-a-month -flat in Passaic, that she belonged at -the social top. She was undoubtedly right. The way -she acted when she arrived there proved it.</p> - -<p>You do not often have the chance, gentle reader, to -get so well acquainted with any human being as I have -enabled you to get with Edna. Probably you do not -even know yourself so well. Therefore I suspect that -you have a wholly false notion of her—think her in -every way much worse relatively than she was. Through -your novels and through the reports your dim eyes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span> -bring to your narrow and shallow mind, you have acquired -certain habits of judging your fellow beings.</p> - -<p>You attach inflated importance to their unimportant -surface qualities—physical appearance, pleasant voice -and manner—and to their amiable little hypocrisies of -apparent sweetness and generosity and friendliness. -You do not see the real person—the human being. You, -being by training a hypocrite and a believer in hypocrisies, -scorn human beings. Now I prefer them to the -sort of people with whom you and your false literature -populate the world. In making you acquainted with -Edna—and the others in my story—I have not introduced -you to bad people, monsters, but to real beings -of usual types, probably on the whole superior to your -smug self in all the good qualities. Had you seen Edna -in the Armitage house that evening you would have -thought her as incapable of calculation and snobbishness -as—well, as any of the others in that company -whose whole lives were made up of calculation and snobbishness. -She—and they—looked so refined and elevated. -She—and they—talked so high-mindedly. I, -who knew almost nothing at that time except business, -was listener rather than talker; and you may be sure -such a man as I, having such ignorance as mine to cover -up, had in years of practice become somewhat adept in -that saving art for the intelligent ignorant. But -Edna——</p> - -<p>She, the most expert of smatterers, fairly shone. -With her beauty and vivacity, her eloquent eyes and -dazzling smile, and exquisite bare shoulders, to aid her, -she created an impression of brilliancy.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>“You had a good time?” said I, when we were in the -motor for the home journey.</p> - -<p>“I never had as good a time in my life,” she exclaimed, -her voice tremulous with ecstasy. “Did I look -well?”</p> - -<p>“Never so well,” said I. “And you made a hit.”</p> - -<p>“I was careful to cultivate the women,” said she. -“I’ve got to get the women.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve got them,” I declared sincerely.</p> - -<p>“You’re sure I didn’t make some of them jealous? -Did you see any signs?”</p> - -<p>“They liked you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I had to play my cards well,” pursued she. “It -was a difficult position. I was far and away the best -looking woman there, with the possible exception of -Mrs. Armitage. Did you hear her call me Edna?”</p> - -<p>“You and Mrs. Armitage look well together. You -are of about the same figure, and the contrast of coloring -is very good.”</p> - -<p>“That’s why we took to each other so quickly. -Each of us sets off the other.”</p> - -<p>“How did you like Armitage?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, well enough,” said she indifferently. “I -hardly noticed him—or the other men. I had my game -to play. The men don’t count in the social game. It’s -the women. I shall be nervous until I find out whether -I really got them. They are such cats!—so mean and -sly and jealous. I <i>detest</i> women!”</p> - -<p>“I prefer men, myself,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Men!” She laughed scornfully. “I think men -are intolerable—American men. They say foreigners<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span> -are better. But American men—they know nothing -but dull business or politics. They have no breadth—no -idealism. The women are far superior to the men.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “No doubt you women are too good -for us,” said I carelessly. “We’re grateful that you -don’t scorn us too much even to accept our money.”</p> - -<p>“How coarse that is! Don’t spoil the happiest -evening of my life.”</p> - -<p>We were at home, so she could escape from me. -And I, for my part, was as glad to be quit of her society -as she could possibly have been to get rid of me. -I was beginning to realize that her conversation bored -me, that it had always bored me, that it was her sex -and only her sex that interested me. And latterly even -this had lost its charm. Why?</p> - -<p>I have observed—and perhaps you have observed it, -too—that people of wealth and position, unless they -have very striking individuality indeed, are usually utterly -devoid of charm. It is difficult to become interested -in them, to establish any sort of sympathetic current. -And you will notice that fashionable functions are dull, -essentially dull; that the animation is artificial, is supplied -from without by an orchestra or entertainers, and -fails to infect the company. It was long before I discovered -the explanation for this. I at first thought it -was the stupidity that comes from a surfeit of the -luxuries and pleasures. But I am now convinced that -this familiar explanation is not the true one; that the -true one is the excessive, the really preposterous self-centeredness -of people of rank and wealth. From waking -until sleeping they are surrounded by hirelings and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span> -sycophants who think and talk only of them. Thus -the rich man or woman gets into the habit of concentrating -upon self. Now the essence of charm is giving—giving -oneself out in sympathetic interest in one’s fellows. -How can people, all whose faculties are trained -to work in upon themselves—how can they have charm? -An egotist, one who <i>talks</i> only of himself, may have -charm because he gives you the impression that he is -trying to please you, that he thinks you so important -that he wishes you to be sensible of his importance. -But the egotist who, whatever he <i>talks</i>, <i>thinks</i> only of -himself—he is not only dull and bored but also a diffuser -of dullness and boredom. And that is how their -servants and their sycophants make the rich and the -fashionable so dreary.</p> - -<p>I imagine some such effect as this was being produced -upon my wife by her surroundings of luxury. I -think that may account for her long decreasing charm -for me. At any rate, soon after she was well launched -on her Elysian sea of fashion—that is to say, soon -after she ceased to have any check of social seeking to -restrain her from centering all her thoughts and actions -upon herself, she lost the last bit of her charm for me. -She became radiantly beautiful. Her face took on a -serene and refinedly assured expression that made her -extravagantly admired on every hand. She became -gracious to me and almost as sweet as she had been -before we moved to New York. She even let me see -that, if I so desired, she would condescend to be on -terms of wifely affection with me again. But I did -not so desire. I liked her. I admired her energy, her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span> -toilets, and, quite impersonally, her aristocratic beauty. -But I was content to be a bachelor, and I was grateful -when she began to relieve me of the tediousness of going -about in her train.</p> - -<p>My substitute was an architect, Leon MacIlvane by -name—a handsome young fellow of about my wife’s age, -though he thought her much younger, despite Margot’s -age and appearance. With his poetic dark eyes and -classic features, and rich, deep voice, MacIlvane had -long been a favorite with the young married women of -the Armitage set. He was indeed a valuable asset. The -rich unmarried men were not especially interesting; -also, they were needed by the marriageable girls. MacIlvane, -not a marrying man and never making any -mother uneasy by so much as an interested glance at -a daughter intended for a rich husband, devoted himself -to married women.</p> - -<p>“I do not care for girls,” he said to me. “They -are too colorless.”</p> - -<p>“Why bother with women at all?” said I. “Aren’t -they all colorless? What do they know about life? -What experience have they had?”</p> - -<p>“An intelligent woman’s mind is the complement of -an intelligent man’s mind,” said he, as if this trite old -fallacy were a brilliant discovery of his own making. -“Women stimulate me, give me ideas.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see,” said I practically. “Business. Yes, -an architect does deal chiefly with the women.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t mean that,” said he, showing as much -anger as he dared show the husband of the woman to -whom he had attached himself.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>“Where’s the harm in it?” said I encouragingly. -“You’ve got to make a living—haven’t you? -It’s good sense for a business man to cultivate his -customers.”</p> - -<p>He, the poseur and the small man, hated this plain -truthful way of dealing with his profession. Like all -chaps of that kidney he thought only of himself and of -appearances, and sought to degrade a noble profession -to the base uses of his vanity. In fact, he had begun -with my wife because of the orders he hoped to get—for, -he suspected that once she looked about her in the -fashionable world from the new viewpoint of a fashionable -person, she would want changes in her house to -make it less vividly grand. He believed she would let -Hilda Armitage educate her; and Hilda, unlike most of -her friends, liked the quiet kinds of ostentation and costliness. -And he guessed correctly. He was well paid -for undertaking to replace me as escort—so far as I -could be replaced without causing scandal—and, thank -heaven, that was very far in the New York of busy and -bored husbands, detesting the gaudy gaddings their -wives loved.</p> - -<p>Soon he was serving my wife for other reasons than -pay. I saw something of him from time to time, and I -presently began to note a change in his manner toward -me—a formal politeness, an exaggeration of courtesy. -I spoke to Armitage about it. Armitage and I had become -the most intimate of friends—knocked about together -in the evenings, were more closely associated than -ever in business.</p> - -<p>“Bob,” said I to Armitage, “what ails that ass,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span> -MacIlvane? He treats me as if he were in love with -my wife.”</p> - -<p>Armitage laughed. “That’s it,” said he. “My -wife’s spaniel, Courtleigh, who writes poetry, treats me -the same way. Get any anonymous letters yet?”</p> - -<p>“Two,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Servants,” said he. “I suppose you burnt them? -You didn’t show them to your wife?”</p> - -<p>“Heavens, no,” replied I. “Why unsettle her? -Why upset a pleasant arrangement? My wife finds -MacIlvane useful. I find him invaluable. He saves me -hours of time. He spares me hours of boredom.”</p> - -<p>“My feeling about Courtleigh,” said Armitage. -“And both those chaps are comfortably trustworthy.”</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t thought of MacIlvane in that way,” said -I. “I know my wife—and that’s enough.”</p> - -<p>Armitage reflected with an amused smile on his face. -Finally, he said: “I don’t suppose there ever were since -the world began so thoroughly trustworthy women as -these American women of the fashionable crowd—those -that have very rich husbands—and only those, of course, -are really fashionable. They may flirt a little, but -never anything serious—never anything that’d give -their husbands an excuse for throwing them out—and -lose them their big houses and big incomes and social -leadership.”</p> - -<p>I had not thought of these aspects of the matter. I -based my feeling of security solely on my knowledge of -my wife’s intense self-absorption. All the springs of -sentiment—except the shallow spring of highfaluting -talk—had dried up in her. She would listen to MacIlvane’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[179]</span> -flatteries as long as he cared to pour them out. -But if he ever tried to get her to think of <i>him</i>, she -would feel outraged.</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” pursued Armitage, “we’d be tremendously -amused if we could overhear those chaps talking -to our wives about us. They don’t dare presume -to the extent of mentioning our names. But -they hand out generalities of roasting—how stupid -most American men are, how superior the women are, -what a tragic condescension for a wonderful American -woman to have to live with a man who couldn’t -appreciate her.”</p> - -<p>I nodded and laughed.</p> - -<p>“Nothing a woman loves so much—an American -woman with a little miseducation befogging her mind -and fooling her as to its limited extent—nothing she -so dearly loves as to hear that she has a great intellect -and a great soul, complex, mysterious, beyond the comprehension -of the vulgar male clods about her. That’s -why they like foreigners. You ought to watch those -foreign chaps flatter our women—make perfect fools -of them.”</p> - -<p>But I had no desire to watch women in any circumstances. -I had no active resentment against them as -had Armitage. I simply wished to be let alone, to be -free to pursue my ambitions and my ideas of self-development. -I had ceased to feel about Margot. I was -merely glad she was not a boy; for I felt that if she -were a boy, I should have to assert myself and do some -drastic and disagreeable—and almost certainly disastrous—disciplining -in my family.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>About a year and a half after my wife achieved her -ambition, I began to feel that she was spiritually bearing -down upon me in pursuance of some new secret -plan.</p> - -<p>During the year and a half she had been playing -the fashionable social game with the strenuous enthusiasm -which only a woman—I had almost said only an -American woman—seems able to inject into the pursuit -of objects that are of no consequences whatsoever. And, -in spite of the useful MacIlvane I had been compelled -to assist her far more than was to my liking. I went -about enough to get a thorough insight into fashionableness—and -a profound distaste for it. Of the many -phases, ludicrous, repellent, despicable, pitiful, there -was one that made a deep impression upon me. It -amazed me to find that the “best” class of people was, -if possible, more vulgarly snobbish than the class from -which I had come—even than the “Brooklyn bounders.” -I could not comprehend—I cannot comprehend—how -those who have had the best opportunities are no more -intelligent, no broader of mind than those who have had -no opportunities at all. The ignorance, the narrowness -of the men and women of the comfortable classes!—the -laziness of their minds!—the shallow cant about literature, -art and the like! Really, intelligence, activity -of mind, seems confined to the few who are pushing -upward; and the masses of mankind in all classes seem -contented each class with its own peculiar wallow of -ignorance.</p> - -<p>But to Edna’s secret plan. If you are a married -man you will at once understand what I mean when I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span> -speak of having a vague sensation of being borne down -upon. She said nothing; she did nothing. But I knew -she was making ready to ask something to which she -believed she could get my consent only by the use of all -her tact and skill and charm—for she did not know her -charms had ceased to charm, but thought them more -potent than ever. I waited with patience and composure; -and in due time she began cautious open approaches.</p> - -<p>“Margot is almost ready to come out,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Money?” said I, smiling.</p> - -<p>She rebuked this coarseness amiably. “<i>Everybody</i> -isn’t <i>always</i> thinking of money, dear,” said she.</p> - -<p>“But why talk to <i>me</i> about anything else? That’s -my only department in the family.”</p> - -<p>She deigned a smile for my pleasantry, then went -on in her usual serious way: “I wish to consult you -about her education.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—finish as you’ve begun,” said I. “I suppose -it’s the best that can be done for a girl.”</p> - -<p>“But I can’t find what I want,” said she, with an -expression of sweet maternal solicitude. “I’ve always -been determined Margot should have the best education -any girl in the whole world could get.”</p> - -<p>“Go ahead,” said I. “See that she gets it.”</p> - -<p>“She shall have the perfect equipment of a lady—of -a woman of the world,” continued Edna, with -growing enthusiasm. “She has the beauty to set -it off—and we can afford to give it to her. I -am willing to make any sacrifices that may be necessary.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>I pricked up my ears. I always do when anyone, -male or female, uses that word sacrifice. I know a piece -of selfishness is coming.</p> - -<p>“As I was saying,” pursued Edna, with the serene -look of the self-confident woman who is taking her -husband in firm, strong hands, “I have been unable to -find what I want for her. Mrs. Armitage tells me I’ll -not find it except in Paris.”</p> - -<p>“Well—why not go to Paris?” said I.</p> - -<p>Did you ever lift an empty box that you thought -full and heavy? My wife looked as if she had just -done that exceedingly uncomfortable thing. “But I -don’t see— I—I— It would be a terrible sacrifice -to have to go and live in Paris,” stammered she.</p> - -<p>“Then don’t do it,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But I must think of Margot!” exclaimed she -hastily.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Margot seems to be stepping along all right. -She’ll never miss what she doesn’t know about.”</p> - -<p>“But you must realize, dear, what an education -she’d get in Paris. And I suppose it would do me -good, too. It’s a shame that I don’t speak French. -Everyone except me speaks it. They all had French -governesses when they were children.”</p> - -<p>“Some of them had—and some hadn’t,” said I. -“Armitage has told me things about your friends that -make me suspect they’re doing fully as much bluffing -as we are.”</p> - -<p>She winced, and sighed the sigh of the lady patient -with a low husband. “Then you think I ought to go?” -said she.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>“I think you ought to do as you like,” said I. -“I always have thought so. I always shall.”</p> - -<p>“And,” continued she absently, “the society over -there must be charming. Really, I need the education -as much as Margot does. I do surprisingly well, considering -what my early opportunities were.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve never once heard you give yourself away,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“I’m not that stupid,” replied she. “But—a while -in France—on the Continent—and in England perhaps——”</p> - -<p>“How long would you be gone?” interrupted I, to -show her that all this beating round Robin’s barn was -superfluous.</p> - -<p>She gave me a coquettish look: “How long could -you spare me?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell till I’ve tried,” said I, with a gallant -smile—but with no move toward her. You women -who would be wise, distrust the gallantry that is content -with speech and look.</p> - -<p>“You understand,” pursued she, “if I started this -thing I’d put it through—no matter how much I -missed you or how homesick I was over there.”</p> - -<p>“You always do put things through,” said I admiringly. -“When have you planned to start?”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t planned at all, as yet,” replied she—and -I saw she thought I had set a trap for her, and -was delighted with herself for having dodged it. Certainly -never was there a husband with whom indirection -was more unnecessary. Yet she would not realize this, -partly because she had never bothered to discover what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span> -manner of man I was, partly because she had one of -those natures that move only by secrecy and indirection.</p> - -<p>“Do you expect me to go over with you?” inquired -I.</p> - -<p>“I only wish you would!” exclaimed she, but I -distrusted her enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t MacIlvane take you over and settle -you?”</p> - -<p>Her face clouded. Her lip curled slightly. “I -don’t like him as I did,” said she. “I’ve found out -he’s ridiculously vain and egotistical.”</p> - -<p>I laughed outright.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” inquired she, elevating her eyebrows. -She had always disapproved my sense of humor.</p> - -<p>“So he’s been making love to you—eh?” said I.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed!” cried she, bridling haughtily. -“He’d not dare. But I saw he was beginning to presume -in that direction, and I checked him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’s harmless,” said I. “Keep friendly with -him. He’d be the very person to settle you in Paris. -He lived there several years.”</p> - -<p>“It would cause scandal,” said she. “If you can’t -go, I can do well enough alone, I’m sure.”</p> - -<p>“I’d only be in the way,” said I. “Let me know -when you wish to go, and I’ll try to arrange it. But -I can’t get away for at least three months.”</p> - -<p>“That would be too late,” said she. “Margot -must be started at once. She hasn’t any too much time -before her coming out. Also, Mrs. Armitage is sailing -in two weeks, and she would be a great help.”</p> - -<p>“Then you have decided to sail in two weeks?”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span> -said I, adding before she had time to get beyond a -gathering frown of protest, “That suits me. I’ll make -my own plans accordingly.”</p> - -<p>And in two weeks they sailed, I watching the big -ship creep out of dock and drop slowly down the river. -Armitage and I drove away from the pier together. -We were in such high spirits that we had champagne -with our lunch.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">VI</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Armitage</span> and I were together every day. He attracted -me for the usual reason of congeniality, and -also because he was giving me a liberal education. I -have never cared for books or, with two or three exceptions, -for book men. About both there is for me -an atmosphere of staleness, of tedium. I prefer to -get what is in the few worth-while books through the -medium of some clear and original mind—such a mind -as Armitage had. He ought to have been a great man. -No, he was a great man; what I mean to say is that -his talents ought to have won his greatness recognition. -He did not lack capacity or energy; he showed a high -degree of both in the management and increase of his -fortune. He lacked that species of vanity, I guess it -is, which spurs a man to make himself conspicuous. -Also he had a kind of laziness, and chose to be active -only in the way that was easiest and most agreeable -for him—the making of money.</p> - -<p>His father had been rich, and his grandfather; -his great grandfather had been one of the richest men -in Revolutionary times. His father was regarded as -a crank because he had imagination, and therefore despised -the conventional ideas of his own generation; -to be regarded as thoroughly sane and sensible, you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span> -must be careful to be neither, but to pattern yourself -painstakingly upon the particular form of feeble-mindedness -and conventional silliness current in your time. -Armitage’s father resolved that his son should not have -his individuality clipped and moulded and patterned -by college and caste into the familiar type of upper-class -man. So Armitage went to public school, graduated -from it into a factory, then into an office, himself -earned the money to carry out the ambitions for -study and travel with which his father had inspired -him.</p> - -<p>I think there was nothing worth the knowing about -which Armitage had not accurate essential information—books, -plays, pictures, music, literature, history, -economics, science, medicine, law, finance. He was a -good shot and a good horseman, could run an automobile, -take it to pieces, put it together again. He was -a practical mechanic and a practical railroad man. He -had a successful model farm. “It doesn’t take long -to learn the essentials about anything,” said he, “if -you will only put your whole mind on it and not let -up till you’ve got what you want. And the trouble -with most people—why, they are narrow and ignorant -and incompetent—it isn’t lack of mind, but lack of interest. -They have no curiosity.” Nor was my friend -Armitage a smatterer. He didn’t try to <i>do</i> everything; -he contented himself with knowledge, and <i>did</i> only one -thing—made money out of railroads.</p> - -<p>When he saw that I really wished to be educated, he -amused himself by educating me. Not in a formal -way, of course; but simply talking along, about whatever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span> -happened to come up. I have never known a man -to get anywhere, who did not have an excellent memory. -Lack of memory—which means lack of the habit and -power of giving attention—is the cause of more failures -than all other defects put together. If you don’t -believe it, test the failures you know; perhaps you -might even test your own not too successful self. I -had an unusual memory; and I don’t think Armitage or -anyone ever told me anything worth knowing that I -did not stick to it and keep it where I could use it -instantly.</p> - -<p>Several months after his wife and mine departed, -we were walking in the park one afternoon—the -usual tramp round the upper reservoir to reduce or -to keep in condition. He said in the most casual -way:</p> - -<p>“My wife is coming next week, and will get her -divorce at once.”</p> - -<p>Taking my cue from his manner I showed even less -surprise then I felt. “This is the first I’ve heard of -it,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Really?” said he carelessly. “Everyone knows.” -He laughed to himself. “She is to marry Lord Blankenship—the -Earl of Blankenship.”</p> - -<p>“And the children?” said I.</p> - -<p>He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Her -people will look after them. She has spoiled them beyond -repair. I have no interest in them—nor they in -me.” After a little tramping in silence, he halted and -rested his hands on the railing and looked away across -the lakelike reservoir, its surface tossed up into white<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span> -caps by the wind. “I loved her when we were married,” -said he. “That caused all the mischief. I let -her do as she pleased. She was a fine girl—good family -but poor. She pretended to be in sympathy with -my ideas.” His lip curled in good-humored contempt. -“I believed in her enthusiasm. My father—wonderfully -sane old man—warned me she was only after our -money, but I wouldn’t listen. Tried to quarrel with -him. He wouldn’t have it—gave me my way. It’s -not strange I believed in her. She looked all that’s -high-minded—and delicate—and what they call aristocratic. -Well, it <i>is</i> aristocratic—the reality of aristocracy.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she was sincere,” said I, out of the depths -of my own experience, “perhaps she honestly imagined -she liked and wanted the sort of life you pictured. We -are all hypocrites, but most of us are unconscious hypocrites.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt she did deceive herself—in part at least,” -he admitted. “For a year or so after our marriage she -kept up the bluff. I didn’t catch on—didn’t find her -out—until we began to differ about bringing up the -children. Even then, I loved her so that I let her have -her way until it was too late.”</p> - -<p>“But,” said I, “don’t you owe it to them to——”</p> - -<p>He interrupted with an impatient, “Didn’t I try? -But it was hopeless. To succeed in this day, I’d have -had to take the children away off into the woods, with -the chances that even there the servants I’d be compelled -to have would spoil them—would keep them reminded of -the rotten snobbishness they’ve been taught.” He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[190]</span> -laughed at me with mocking irony. “You have a -daughter,” said he. “What about her?”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of your boy,” said I.</p> - -<p>He frowned and looked away. After a long pause—“Hopeless—hopeless,” -said he. “Believe me—hopeless. The boy is like her. -No, I’ll have to begin all over again.”</p> - -<p>I gave an inquiring look.</p> - -<p>“Marry again,” explained he. “Another sort of -woman, and keep her and her children away from this -world of ours. I’d like to try the experiment. But—” -He laughed apologetically. “I’m afraid I love the city -and its amusements too well. I’m not as determined nor -as ardent as I once was. What does it matter, anyway? -So long as we are comfortable and well amused, why -should we bother?” After a silence, “Another mistake -I made—the initial mistake—was in giving her a fortune. -She is almost as well fixed as I am. Don’t make -that mistake, Godfrey.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve already done it,” said I. “And I shall never -be sorry that I did. I gave my wife the first large sum -I made, and I’ve added to it from time to time. I wanted -her and Margot to be safe, no matter what happened -to me.”</p> - -<p>“A mistake,” he said. “A sad mistake. I know -how you felt. I felt the same way. But there’s something -worse than the more or less sentimental aversion -to being loved and considered merely for the money they -can get out of you and can’t get without you.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing worse,” I declared.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he replied. “It’s worse to give a foolish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span> -woman the power to make a fool of herself, of her children, -and of you.”</p> - -<p>“That is bad, I’ll admit,” said I. “But the other -is worse—at least to me.”</p> - -<p>“You’d refuse to make a child behave itself, through -the selfish fear that it would hate you for doing so.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “You know my weakness, I see,” said I.</p> - -<p>“There’s the foolish American husband and father. -No wonder all the classes that ought to be leaders in -development and civilization are leaders only in luxury -and folly.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, let them have a good time—what they call a -good time,” said I. “As you said a moment ago, it -doesn’t matter.”</p> - -<p>“If it only were a good time—to be ignorant and -snobbish and lazy, to drive instead of walking, to eat -and drink instead of thinking, to be waited upon instead -of getting the education and the happiness that -come from serving others. Don’t laugh at me. After -all, while you and I—all our sort of men—are greedy, -selfish grabbers, making thousands work for us, still we -do build up big enterprises, we do set things to moving, -and we do teach men the discipline of regular work by -forcing them to work for us at more or less useful -things.”</p> - -<p>No doubt you, gentle reader, have fallen asleep over -this conversation. I understand perfectly that it is beyond -you; for you have no conception of the deep underlying -principles of the relations of men and men or -men and women. But there may be among my readers -a few who will see interest and importance in this talk<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span> -with Armitage. It is time the writers of stories concerned -themselves with the realities of life instead of with -the showy and sensational things that obscure or hide -the realities. What would you think of the physiologist -who issued a treatise on physiology with no mention -or account of the blood? Yet you read stories about -what purports to be life with no mention or account of -money—this, when in any society money is the all-important -factor. Put aside, if you can, the prejudices -of your miseducation and æsthetics, of your false culture -and your false refinement, open your mind, <i>think</i>, -and you will see that I am right.</p> - -<p>When we were well down toward the end of the Park, -Armitage said: “Pardon me a direct question. Have -you and your wife separated?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I. “She has gone abroad to round out -Margot’s education—and her own.”</p> - -<p>“You know what that means?”</p> - -<p>“In a general way,” replied I. “I’m letting them -amuse themselves. They don’t need me, nor I them. -Perhaps when they come back—” I did not finish my -sentence.</p> - -<p>He laughed. “That means you don’t really care -what happens when they come back.”</p> - -<p>My smile was an admission of the correctness of his -guess. We dropped our domestic affairs and took up -the matters that were more interesting and more important -to us.</p> - -<p>If you have good sight, unimpaired eyes, you go -about assuming—when you think of it at all—that good -sight is the rule in the world and impaired eyes the exception.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span> -But let your sight begin to fail, let your eyes -become darkened, and soon you discover that you are one -of thousands—that good sight is the exception, that -almost everyone has something the matter with his eyes. -The reason human beings know so little about human -nature, the reason the sentimental flapdoodle about human -virtues, in the present not very far-advanced stage -of human evolution, is so widely believed and doubt of it -so indignantly denounced as cynicism, lies in the fact -that the average human being is ignorant of the afflictions -of his own soul. This would be pleasant and harmless -enough, and to destroy the delusion would be wickedly -cruel, were it not that the only way to cure ailments -of whatever sort is to diagnose them. What hope -is there for the man devoured of a fever who fancies and -insists that he is healthy? What hope is there for the -man who eats pleasant-tasting slow poison under the -impression that it is food? What a quaint notion it is -that the truth, the sole source of health and happiness, -is bad for some people, chiefly for those sick unto death -through the falsehoods of ignorance and vanity! We -humans are like the animal that claws and bites the surgeon -who is trying to set its broken leg.</p> - -<p>But I am wandering a little. Discover that you have -any ailment of body or of soul, and you soon discover -how widespread that ailment is. You do not even appreciate -how widespread, incessant, and poignant are the -ravages of death until your own family and friends begin -to die off. I had no notion of the extent of the social -or domestic malady of abandoned husbands and -fathers until I became one of that curious class.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span>Among the masses there is the great and growing -pestilence of abandoned wives—husbands, worn out by -the uncertainties of the laboring man’s income, and disgusted -with the incompetence of their wives and with -the exasperations of the badly brought up children—such -husbands flying by tens of thousands to escape what -they cannot cure or endure. Among the classes, from -the plutocracy down to and through the small merchants -and professional men, I now discovered that there was -a corresponding and reversed disease—the abandoned -husband.</p> - -<p>The husband and father, working hard and presently -accumulating enough for ease in his particular station -of life, suddenly finds himself supporting, with perhaps -all the money he can scrape together, a distant and -completely detached family. He mails his money regularly, -and with a fidelity that will appear grotesque, -noble, or pitiful according to the point of view. In return -he gets occasional letters from the loved ones—perfunctory -these letters somehow sound, or would sound -to the critical, though they are liberally sprinkled with -loving, even fawning phrases, such as “dear, sweet -papa” and “darling husband.” Where are “the loved -ones?” If the family home is in a small town or country, -they are in New York or some other city of America -usually. If the family home is in the city, they are -abroad. What are they doing? Sacrificing themselves! -Especially poor wife and mother. She would infinitely -prefer being at home with beloved husband. But she -must not be selfish. She must carry her part of their -common burden. While <i>he</i> toils to provide for the children,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span> -<i>she</i> toils in the loneliness or unhappiness of New -York or Paris or Rome or Dresden or Genoa. And what -is she toiling at in those desert places? Why, at educating -the children!</p> - -<p>Sometimes it’s music. Sometimes it’s painting. -Again it’s “finishing,” whatever that may mean, or -plain, vague “education.” There was a time when men -of any sort could be instantly abashed, silenced and -abased by the mere pronouncing of the word education. -That happy day for mental fakers is nearing its close. -Now, at the sound of the sacred word many a sensible, -practical man has the courage to put on a grin. I have -been credited with saying that a revival of the declining -child-bearing among American women might be looked -for, now that they have found the usefulness of children -as an excuse for escape from home and husband. I admit -having said this, but I meant it as a jest. However, -there is truth in the jest. I don’t especially blame the -women. Why should they stay at home when they have -no sympathy with the things that necessarily engross -the husband? Why stay at home when it bores them -even to see that the servants carry on the house decently? -Why stay at home when they simply show -there from day to day how little they know about -housekeeping? Why stay at home when there is an -amiable fool willing to mail them his money, while they -amuse themselves gadding about Europe or some big -city of America?</p> - -<p>Abandoned wives at the one end of the social scale, -abandoned husbands at the other end. Please note that -in both cases the deep underlying cause is the same—money.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span> -Too little money, and the husband flies; too -much money, and it is the wife who breaks up the family.</p> - -<p>As soon as I discovered, by being elected to membership, -the existence of the universal order of abandoned -husbands I took the liveliest interest in it. I was eager -to learn whether there was another fool quite so foolish -as myself, also whether the other fools were aware of -their own folly. I found that most of them were rather -proud of their membership, indulged in a ludicrous cocking -of the comb and waggling of the wattles when they -spoke of “my family over on the other side for a few -years,” or of “my wife, poor woman, exiled in Paris to -cultivate my daughter’s voice,” or of “my invalid wife—she -has to live in the south of France. It’s a sad trial -to us both.”</p> - -<p>Then—but this came much later—I discovered that -these credulous, money-mailing fools, including myself, -were not quite so imbecile, as a class, as they seemed to -be. I discovered that they were secretly, often unconsciously, -glad to be rid of their uncongenial families, -and regarded any money they mailed as money well -spent. They toiled cheerfully at distasteful tasks to -get the wherewithal to keep their loved ones far, far -away!</p> - -<p>The absence of Edna and Margot was an enormous -relief to me. Edna was constantly annoying me to accompanying -her to places to which I did not care to go. -I like the theatre and I rather like some operas, but when -I go to either it is for the sake of the performance. -Going with Edna and her friends meant a tedious social -function. We arrived late; we did not hear the play or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[197]</span> -the opera. As for the purely social functions, they were -intolerable. Perhaps I should not have been so unhappy -had I been the kind of man who likes to talk for the sake -of hearing his own voice. Women are attentive listeners -when the man who is talking is worth flattering. But -I talk only for purpose, and when I listen I wish it to -be to some purpose also. So, Edna, always urging me -to do something distasteful or giving me the sense that -she was about to ask me, or was irritated against me for -being “disobliging”—Edna made me uncomfortable, increasingly -uncomfortable as I grew more intelligent, -more critical, more discriminating. As for Margot, I -could not talk with her ten minutes without seeing protrude -from her sweet loveliness some vulgarity of snobbishness. -It irritated me to hear her speak to a servant. -I had to rebuke her privately several times for the tone -she used in addressing her governess or my secretary—this -when her mother and all her mother’s friends used -precisely the same repellent “gracious” tone in the same -circumstances. I saw that she, sometimes instinctively, -again deliberately tried to hide her real self from me, -that I was making a hypocrite of her. Any sort of -frankness or sympathy between her and me was impossible.</p> - -<p>A few weeks after their departure I closed the house. -It came to me that I need endure its discomforts no -longer, that I could get rid of those smelly, dull-witted, -low-minded foreign animals, that I need not endure food -sent up from a kitchen as to which I had from time to -time disgusting proofs that it was not clean. I closed -the house and left the mice and roaches and other insects<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span> -to such short provender as would be provided by caretaker -and family. I took an apartment in a first-class -hotel.</p> - -<p>When Armitage got clear of his wife he took the -adjoining apartment. And how comfortable and how -cheerful we were!</p> - -<p>The women with their incompetence and indifference -have about destroyed the American home. To get good -service, to have capable people assisting you, you must -yourself be capable. The incapacity of the “ladies” -has driven good servants out of the business of domestic -service, has left in it only the worthless and unreliable -creatures who now take care of the homes. If you find -any part of the laboring class deteriorating, don’t blame -them. To do that is to get nowhere, is to be unjust -and shallow to boot. Instead, look at the employers of -that labor. Every time, you will find the fault is there, -just as an ill-mannered or a bad child means unfaithful -parents. The masses of mankind must have leadership, -guidance, example. My experience has been that they -respond when the dominating classes do their duty—that -is, pay proper wages, demand good service, <i>and -know what good service is</i>.</p> - -<p>What a relief and a joy that hotel was! Armitage -and I had our own cook, and so could have the simple -dishes we liked. We attended to the marketing—and -both knew what sort of meat and vegetables and fruit to -buy, and were not long trifled with by our butcher, our -grocer, and our dairyman, spoiled though they were by -the ladies. And our apartments were clean—really -clean, and after the first few weeks our servants were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span> -contented, and abandoned the evil ways slip-shod -mistresses had got them into. Pushing my inquiries, I -found that not only our hotel, but every first-class hotel -in the fashionable district was filled with the remnants -of shattered homes—husbands who had compelled their -wives to give up the expensive and dirty attempts at -housekeeping; husbands who had abandoned their families -in country homes or in other cities and towns and -had, surreptitiously or boldly, returned to bachelor -bliss; husbands who had been abandoned by their families, -none of these last cases being more heart-breaking -than Armitage’s or my own. The story ran that he -was on the verge of melancholia because his beautiful -wife had cast him off. There was no more truth in this -than there would have been in a tale of my lonely grief. -Had it not been for Armitage, pointing out to me the -truth, I might have fancied myself a deserted unfortunate. -It would not have been an isolated instance of -a human being not knowing when he is well off.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I did not see my family again until the following -spring. Business compelled me to go abroad, and they -had come over to London for the season.</p> - -<p>When I descended from the train at Euston, a little -confused by the strangeness, I saw my wife a few yards -down the platform. Beside her stood a tall, beautiful -young woman, whom I did not instantly recognize as my -daughter. Both were dressed with the perfection of -taste and of detail that has made the American woman -famous throughout the world. I like well-dressed -women—and well-dressed men, too. I should certainly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span> -have been convicted of poor taste had I not been dazzled -by those two charming examples of fashion and style. -They looked like two lovely sisters, the elder not more -than five or six years in advance of the younger. I was -a youthful-looking man, myself—except, perhaps, when -I was in the midst of affairs and took on the air of responsibility -that cannot appear in the face of youth. -But no one would have believed there were so few years -between Edna and me. Nor was she in the least made-up. -The youth was genuinely there.</p> - -<p>That meeting must have impressed the by-standers, -who were observing the two women with admiring interest. -I felt a glow of enthusiasm at sight of these -elegant beauties. I was proud to be able to claim them. -As for them, they became radiant the instant they saw -me.</p> - -<p>“Godfrey!” cried Edna loudly, rushing toward me.</p> - -<p>“Papa—dear old papa!” cried Margot, waving her -arms in a pretty gesture of impatient adoration while -her mother was detaining me from her embrace.</p> - -<p>“Well—well!” cried I. “What a pair of girls! -My, but you’re tearing it off!”</p> - -<p>They laughed gayly, and hugged and kissed me all -over again. For a moment I felt that I had been missed—and -that I had missed them. A good-looking, shortish -and shy young man, dressed and groomed in the -attractive English upper-class way of exquisiteness with -no sacrifice of manliness, was now brought forward.</p> - -<p>“Lord Crossley—my husband,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“Pleased, I’m sure,” murmured the young man, giving -me his hand with an awkwardness that was somehow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span> -not awkward—or, rather, that conveyed a subtle impression -of good breeding. “Now that you’ve got him—or -that he’s got you,” proceeded he, “I’ll toddle -along.”</p> - -<p>My wife gave him her hand carelessly. “Until dinner,” -she said.</p> - -<p>Margot shook hands with him, and nodded and -smiled. When he was gone I observed the carriage near -which we were standing—and I knew at once that it was -my wife’s carriage. It was a grand car of state, yet -quiet and simple. I often looked at it afterwards, trying -to puzzle out how it contrived to convey two exactly -opposite impressions. I could never solve the mystery. -On the lofty box sat the most perfect model of a coachman -I had seen up to that time. Beside the open door -in the shallow, loftily hung body of the carriage stood -an equally perfect footman. I was soon to get used to -that marvelous English ability at specializing men—a -system by which a man intended for a certain career is -arrested in every other kind of growth, except only that -which tends to make him more perfect for his purpose. -Observing an English coachman, or valet or butler or -what not, you say, “Here is a remarkably clever man.” -Yet you soon find out that he is practically imbecile in -every other respect but his specialty.</p> - -<p>We entered the carriage, I sitting opposite the ladies—and -most uncomfortable I was; for the carriage was -designed to show off its occupants, and to look well in -it they had to know precisely how to sit, which I did not. -No one noticed me, however. There was too much -pleasure to be got out of observing Edna and Margot,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span> -who were looking like duchesses out of a storybook. I -knew they were delightfully conscious of the sensation -they were making, yet they talked and laughed as if -they were alone in their own sitting room—a trick which -is part of that “education” of which you have heard -something, and will hear still more. The conversation -seemed easy. In fact, it was only animated. It was -a fair specimen of that whole mode of life. You have -seen the wonderful peaches that come to New York -from South Africa early in the winter—have delighted -in their exquisite perfection of color and form. But -have you ever tasted them? I would as lief eat sawdust; -I would rather eat it—for, of sawdust I should -expect nothing.</p> - -<p>“That young man is the Marquis of Crossley,” said -my wife.</p> - -<p>I liked to hear her pronounce a title in private. It -gave you the sense of something that tasted fine—made -you envy her the sensation she was getting. “Who is -he?” said I.</p> - -<p>Margot laughed naïvely—an entrancing display of -white teeth and rose-lined mouth. “Marquis of Crossley, -papa,” she said. “That’s all—and quite enough -it is.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know much about the big men in England,” -said I. “He looked rather young to amount to very -much.”</p> - -<p>“He’s as old as you are,” said Edna, a flash of ill-humor -appearing and vanishing.</p> - -<p>I was astonished. “I thought him a boy,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He’s one of the greatest nobles in England—one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span> -of the greatest in Europe,” said Edna—and I saw Margot’s -eyes sparkling.</p> - -<p>“He seemed a nice fellow,” said I amiably. “How -you have grown, Margot!”</p> - -<p>“Hasn’t she, though!” cried my wife. “Aren’t -you proud of her?”</p> - -<p>“I’m proud of you both,” said I. “You make me -feel old and dingy.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve been working too hard, poor dear,” said -Edna tenderly. “If you only would stay over here and -learn the art of leisure.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I’d be dismally bored,” said I.</p> - -<p>I had heard much about the art of loafing as practiced -by Europeans, and I had not been attracted by -what I had heard. It was inconceivable to me that intelligent -grown men could pass their time at things -about equal to marbles and tops. But I suppose I am -abnormal, as they allege. Many men seem to look on -mental effort of any kind as toilsome, and seize the first -opportunity to return to the mindless frolickings of the -beasts of the field. To me mental effort is a keen pleasure. -And I must add I can’t help thinking it is to -everybody who has real brains.</p> - -<p>The conversation would have died in distressing -agony had it not been for the indomitable pluck of my -wife. She struggled desperately—perhaps may even -have deceived herself into thinking that she was glad to -see me and that the carriage was the scene of a happy -reunion. But I, who had a thorough training in quickly -sizing up situations, saw the truth—that I was a rank -outsider, to both wife and daughter; that they were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span> -strangers to me. I began to debate what was the shortest -time I could decently stop in London.</p> - -<p>“We are to be presented at Court next week,” said -Edna.</p> - -<p>Margot’s eyes were again sparkling. It was the -sort of look the novelists put on the sweet young girl’s -face when she sees her lover coming.</p> - -<p>“Yes—next week—next Thursday,” said Edna. -“And so another of the little duchess’s dreams is coming -true.”</p> - -<p>“Is it exciting?” said I to Margot. Somehow reference -to the “little duchess” irritated me.</p> - -<p>“Rather!” exclaimed Margot, fairly glowing with -ecstasy. “You put on the most wonderful dress, and -you drive in a long, long line of wonderful carriages, -with all the women in wonderful dresses. And you go -into the palace through lines and lines of gorgeous -liveries and uniforms—and you wait in a huge grand -room for an hour or so, frightened to death—and then -you walk into the next room and make the courtesy you -have been practicing for weeks—and you pass on.”</p> - -<p>“Good!” cried I. “What then?”</p> - -<p>“Why you go home, half dead from the nervous -shock. Oh, it’s wonderful!”</p> - -<p>It seemed to me—for I was becoming somewhat -critical, as is the habit in moods of irritation—it -seemed to me that Margot’s elaborate and costly education -might have included the acquiring of a more -extensive vocabulary. That word wonderful was beginning -to get on my nerves. Still, this was hyper-criticism. -A lovely woman does not need a vocabulary,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span> -or anything else but a lovely dress and plenty of money -to provide background. “Yes—it must be—wonderful,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“We’ve been working at it for weeks, mamma and -I,” continued she. “I’m sure we shall do well. I can -hardly wait. Just fancy! I’m to meet the <i>king</i> and -the <i>queen</i>!”</p> - -<p>I saw that Edna was in the same ecstatic trance. I -leaned back and tried to distract myself with the novelty -of London houses and crowds. It may be you understand -the mingling of pity, contempt, anger, and -amusement that filled my breast. If you do not understand, -explanation would merely weary you. I was no -longer proud of my beautiful family; I wished to get -away from them, to forget them. Edna and Margot -chatted on and on about the king and queen, about the -various titled people they knew or hoped to know, about -the thrills of aristocratic society. I tried not to listen. -After a while I said, with I hope not unsuccessful attempt -at amiability:</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry I shan’t be here to witness your triumph.”</p> - -<p>Across Edna’s face swept a flash of vivid—I had -almost said vicious—annoyance. “You’re not going -before the drawing-room at Buckingham Palace!” cried -she.</p> - -<p>“I’ll have to,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But you can’t!” protested Margot, tears of vexation -in her eyes. “Everyone will think it’s dreadfully -queer.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t fret about that, my dear,” replied I lightly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[206]</span> -“I know how it is over here. So long as you’ve got -the cash they’ll never ask a question. We Americans -mean money to them—and that’s all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa!” cried Margot.</p> - -<p>“Don’t put such ideas into the child’s head, Godfrey,” -said my wife, restraining herself in a most ladylike -manner.</p> - -<p>“She knows,” said I. “So do you. Money is everything -with aristocracies everywhere. They must live -luxuriously without work. That can’t be done without -money—lots of money. So aristocrats seriously think -of nothing else, whatever they may talk.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll have a better opinion of them when you -know them,” said Edna, once more serene and sweetly -friendly.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think badly of them,” I replied. “I admire -their cleverness. But you mustn’t ask me to respect -them. They hardly expect it. They don’t respect -themselves. If they did, they’d not be stealing, but -working.”</p> - -<p>Margot listened with lowered eyes. I saw that she -was ashamed of and for me. Edna concealed her feelings -better. She forced an amiable smile. “I don’t -know much about these things,” she said politely. -“But, Godfrey, you mustn’t desert us, at least not until -after the drawing-room. I’ve told our ambassador -you’re to be here, and he has gone to no end of trouble -to arrange for you.”</p> - -<p>“Howard?” said I. “That pup! I despise him. -He’s a rotten old snob. They tell me his toadyism turns -the stomach of even the English. He’s a disgrace to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span> -our country. But I suppose he’s little if any worse -than most of our ambassadors over here. They’ve all -bought their jobs to gratify their own and their wives’ -taste for shoe polish.”</p> - -<p>This speech so depressed the ladies that their last -remnant of vivacity fled, not to return. You are sympathizing -with them, gentle reader, and they are welcome -to your sympathy. We drove in silence the rest -of the way to the hotel in Piccadilly, where they were -installed in pompous luxury and had made equally luxurious -provision for me. When I was alone with my -valet I reasoned myself out of the grouchy mood into -which the evidences of my family’s fresh access of folly -had thrown me. To quarrel with them, to be irritated -against them, was about as unreasonable as attacking a -black man for not being white. I had long since realized, -as the result of much experience and reflection, -that character is no more to be changed than any other -inborn quality. My wife had been born an aristocrat, -and had brought into the world an aristocratic daughter. -She was to be blamed neither for the one thing -nor for the other. And it ill became my pretensions -to superior intellect to gird at her and at Margot. The -thing for me to do was to let them alone—keep away.</p> - -<p>At dinner, which was served in our apartment, I -took a different tone with them, and they met me more -than half way. So cheered was my lovely daughter that -after dinner she perched on the arm of my chair and -ventured to bring up the dangerous subject. Said she:</p> - -<p>“You’re not going to be mean to me and run away, -are you, papa?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>Looking at Edna, but addressing Margot, I replied: -“Your mother will tell you that it’s best. We three -never can agree in our ideas of things. I’m an irritation. -I spoil your pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“No—no, indeed!” cried the girl. “I’ve been looking -forward to your coming. I’ve been telling everybody -how handsome and superior you are. And I want -them to see for themselves.”</p> - -<p>Most pleasant to hear from such rare prettiness, and -most sincerely spoken.</p> - -<p>“So many of the American men in society over here -are common,” proceeded she, “and even those who -aren’t so very common somehow seem so. They are -down on their knees before titles, and they act—like -servants. Even Mr. Howard— He oughtn’t to show -his feelings so plainly. Of course we all feel impressed -and honored by being taken up by real titled people of -old families, but it’s such bad form to show, and it interferes -with getting on. When I’m talking to Lord Crossley -about that drawing-room, I act as if it were -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“I see you are being well educated,” said I, laughing.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. Mamma and I have worked. We’ve not -had an idle moment.”</p> - -<p>“I believe you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You <i>will</i> stay, papa—won’t you?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head. But it was no longer the positive -gesture. My besetting sin, my good nature, had -possession of me. Remember, it was after dinner, and -my beautiful daughter was caressing my cheek and was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span> -pleading in a voice whose modulations had been cultivated -by the best masters in Paris.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want people to think I was deceiving -them about my papa.”</p> - -<p>“I’m willing to be exhibited to a select few in the -next two or three days,” I conceded. “They will tell -the others.”</p> - -<p>And with that they had to be content. In the faint -hope of inducing me to change my mind, Edna—the -devoid of the sense of humor—took me to a tailor’s -and had me shown pictures and models of the court -costume I would wear. But I remained firm. A sense -of humor would have warned her that a person of my -sort would have an aversion to liveries of every kind, -to any costume that stamps a man as one of a class. -I am perhaps foolishly jealous of my own individuality. -But I cannot help it. A king in his robes, a general in -his uniform—except in battle where it’s as necessary -and useful as night shirt or pajamas in bed—any sort -of livery seems pitiful and contemptible to me. I will -wear the distinguishing dress of the human race and -the male sex, but further than that classification I -refuse to move. Also, what business had I, citizen of -a democracy whose chief idea is the barbarism and -silliness of aristocracy—what business had I going to -see a king and a queen? I should have felt that I was -aiding them in the triumph of dragging democracy at -their chariot wheels. No, I would not go to levees and -drawing-rooms. You may say I showed myself an absurd -extremist. Well, perhaps so. But, as it seems -to be necessary to go to one extreme or the other, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span> -prefer the extreme of exaggerated and vainglorious -self-respect.</p> - -<p>“The king and queen are no doubt nice people,” -said I to Margot. “But if I meet them, it must be -on terms of equality—and for some purpose less inane -than exchanging a few set phrases.”</p> - -<p>Edna and Margot seemed to feel that they had, -on the whole, a presentable specimen of male relative -to exhibit; for they made the most of the four days I -gave them. Through Hilda Armitage, now Lady -Blankenship, and much freshened up by the more congenial -atmosphere, they had got in with the set that is -the least easy of access to Americans—though, of -course, it is not actually difficult for any American -with plenty of money and a willingness to spend and -good guidance in how to spend. And I must admit -I enjoyed myself in those four days. The women -were, for the most part, rather slow, though I recall -two who had real intelligence, and I don’t think -there was a single one quite so devoid of knowledge of -important subjects as our boasted “bright” American -women. The men were distinctly attractive. -They had information, they had breadth—the thing -the upper-class men of America often lack. Also, -they were entirely free from that ill-at-easeness about -their own and their neighbor’s position in society -which makes the American upper classes tiresome and -ridiculous.</p> - -<p>It amused me to observe the Americans in this environment. -Both our women and our men seemed uneasy, -small, pinched. You could distinguish the American<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span> -man instantly by his pinched, tight expression of -an upper servant out for a holiday. I could feel the -same thing in our women, but I doubt not their looks -and dress and vivacity concealed it from the Englishmen. -Anyhow, women are used to being nothing in -themselves, to taking rank and form from their surroundings. -While with us it seems to be true that the -women are wholly responsible for social position with -all its nonsense, the deeper truth is that they owe everything -to the possessions of their fathers or husbands. -Without that backing they would be nothing. Everything -must ultimately rest upon a substantiality. In -themselves, unsupported, the women’s swollen pretensions -would vanish into thin air.</p> - -<p>Lord Crossley was to have dined with us my first -evening in London, but was prevented by suddenly -arising business in the country. Next day he came -to lunch, and I at once saw that he was after Margot -hammer and tongs. I discovered it not by the way he -treated her, but by his attitude toward her mother and -me. He seemed a thoroughly satisfactory young man -in every way, and I especially liked his frankness and -simplicity. Edna had devoted a large part of a long -sight-seeing tour with me to an account of his grandeur -in the British aristocracy. Having had experience -at that time of the American brand of aristocracy -only, I was ignorant of the European kinds that have -the aristocratic instinct in the most acute form—the -ingrowing form. I know now that our own sort, unpleasant -and unsightly though it is, cannot compare -in malignance, in littleness and meanness of soul with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span> -the European sort. Just as the noisy blowhard is a -modest fellow and harmless, and on acquaintance lovable -in comparison with the silent, brooding egotist, -just so is the American aristocrat in comparison with -the European. An American aristocrat has been known -to forget himself and be human. I recall no instance -of that sort in an European born and bred to the notion -that his flesh and blood are of a subtler material -than the flesh and blood of most men. However, as I -was saying, at the time of my first visit to Europe I -knew nothing of these matters, and Lord Crossley -seemed to me a simple, ingenuous young man, most -attractively boyish for his years.</p> - -<p>“That chap wants to marry Margot,” said I to -Edna when we were alone later in the afternoon.</p> - -<p>“I think so,” said she. “Several young men wish -to marry her. But she is in no hurry. She’s not nineteen -yet, and she would like a duke.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said I. “But she may not be able -to love a duke.”</p> - -<p>“I never heard of a girl who wouldn’t love a duke -if she got the chance,” said Edna. “There are only -five—English dukes, I mean—who are eligible. Margot -has met three of them—and one, the Duke of Brestwell, -has taken quite a fancy to her.” Carelessly, but -with nervous anxiety underneath, “You wouldn’t have -any objection?”</p> - -<p>“I? Why?”</p> - -<p>“Oh—you are so—so peculiar in some ways.”</p> - -<p>“Anyone who pleases Margot will suit me,” said I.</p> - -<p>“We were afraid you’d be prejudiced against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span> -titles. You’ve been with that eccentric Mr. Armitage -so much—and you always have been against the sort -of things Margot and I like.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve no objection to titles,” said I. “In fact, I -think Margot will be happier if she marries a title. -You’ve educated her so well that she’ll never see the -man or think of him.”</p> - -<p>“How little you know her!” cried Edna, pathetically. -“And how unjust to me your prejudices make -you. I’ve brought her up to be all refinement—all -sentiment—all heart. She looks only at the highest -and best.”</p> - -<p>“At the duke,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Certainly at the duke,” said she. “Her tastes -are for the life where a woman can show her beauty of -soul to the best advantage and can do the most good. -There is no career for a woman in America. But over -here a woman married into the aristocracy has a real -career.”</p> - -<p>“At what?” said I.</p> - -<p>“As a recognized social leader. As a leader in -charities and all sorts of good movements.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I see,” said I—and there I stopped, for I had -learned not to argue with my wife—or with anyone -else, male or female—when the subject is sheer twaddle. -“Yes, I think Margot would do well to marry over -here and to have a dazzling career. I’m sure she’d -never get tired of this—pardon me—treadmill. I observe -that it’s better organized than the imitation one -we have over in ‘the States.’”</p> - -<p>“I should say!” cried Edna. “You’ve no idea<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span> -how cheap and common the best you have in New York -is beside the social life here. I’ve been here only a -year, but already there have been the greatest changes -in me. Don’t you notice?”</p> - -<p>“I do,” said I. “And I can honestly say you have -changed for the better. You’ve learned to cover -it up.”</p> - -<p>She looked inquiringly at me, but I did not care -to explain what the “it” was that she had learned to -cover. A slight flush appeared in her cheeks, and I -knew intuitively that she thought I was alluding to her -humble origin. I did not disabuse her mind of this -impression. She would have been angry had I explained -that I meant her social ambitions which I -thought vulgar and she thought refined. Both she and -Margot, except in occasional unguarded moments in -privacy, had indeed vastly improved in manners. They -had learned the trick of the aristocrats they associated -with—the trick of affecting simplicity and equality and -quietly confident ease. There was a notable difference, -and altogether in their favor, between their manners -and the manners of the former Mrs. Armitage and -other American women. Whatever might justly be -said in the way of criticism of my wife, it assuredly -could not be said that she was lacking in agility at -“catching on.” Armitage once said to me, “Your -wife is a marvelous woman. I never saw or heard of -her making a break.” This tribute can be appreciated -only when you recall whence she sprung—and how -much of her origin remained with her—necessarily—through -all her climbings and soarings.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[215]</span>“You prefer it over here?” said I—we were still -driving.</p> - -<p>“If it weren’t for you, I’d never go back,” said she.</p> - -<p>“For me?” said I. “Oh, don’t bother about me.”</p> - -<p>“But I do,” replied she sweetly. And her hand -covertly stole into mine for a moment. “Sometimes -I get so homesick, Godfrey, that’s it all I can do to -fight off the impulse to take the first steamer.”</p> - -<p>I tried to look as a man should on hearing such -pleasant and praiseworthy sentiments from the wife of -his bosom.</p> - -<p>“You’ve acted cold and—and reserved with me,” she -went on. “I wanted to come to you last night. But -I hadn’t the courage. You are such a mixture of tenderness -and—and aloofness. You have the power to make -even me feel like a stranger.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t mean to be that way,” said I, -thoroughly uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>“Margot was speaking of it,” proceeded Edna. -“She said—poor affectionate child—that she hardly -dared put her arms round you and kiss you. You -oughtn’t to repulse the child that way, Godfrey. She -has a tender, loving heart. And she adores you. She -and I talk of you a long time every day. I’d insist -on it as a matter of duty—for I’d not let your child -forget you. But I don’t need to insist. She refers -everything to you, and whenever she’s unusually happy, -she always says: ‘If papa could only be enjoying this -with us!’”</p> - -<p>I saw that she had worked herself up into a state -of excitement. My good sense told me that there was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span> -no genuineness in either her affection or Margot’s. But -I had no doubt they both thought themselves genuine. -And that was quite enough to give me, the easy-going -American slob of a husband and father, an acute attack -of guilty conscience. The upshot was——</p> - -<p>But you who have an impressionable heart and a -keen sense of your own shortcomings can guess what -it was. Edna and I resumed the relations of affectionate -husband and wife for the rest of my—brief—stop -in London. I remained several days longer than -I had intended—stayed on because I did not wish to -hurt her feelings. And I bought her and Margot all -sorts of jewelry and gew-gaws, largely increased her -personal fortune, did not utter a word that would ruffle -either of them. And I left them convinced that I was -going only because business not to be neglected compelled.</p> - -<p>They say that the hypocrite wife is a common occurrence. -I wonder if the hypocrite husband is rare. -I wonder if there are not more instances than this -one of the husband and the wife playing a cross game -of hypocrisy, with each fancying the other deceived?</p> - -<p>So busy was I with my own laborings to deceive -my wife as to the true state of my feelings toward her -that not until I was halfway across the Atlantic did I -happen to think the obvious thought. You, gentle -reader, have not thought it. But perhaps some more -intelligent species of reader has. In mid-Atlantic, I -suddenly thought: “Why she—she and Margot—were -playing a game—the same game. For what purpose?”</p> - -<p>It was not many months before I found out.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">VII</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> summer Armitage was spending the week -ends out on Long Island at the country place of his -sister, Mrs. Kirkwood. He kept his yacht in the tiny -harbor there and made short cruises in the Sound -and up the New England coast. Naturally I often -went with him. Those parties usually amused me. He -knew a dozen interesting people—working people—such -as Boris Raphael, the painter, and his wife, the -architect, the Horace Armstrongs who had been divorced -and remarried, a novelist named Beechman who -wrote about the woods and lived in the wilderness in -the Southwest most of the year, Susan Lenox the actress—several -others of the same kind. Then there was -his sister—Mary Kirkwood.</p> - -<p>For a reason which will presently appear I have -not before spoken of Mrs. Kirkwood, though I had -known her longer than I had known Armitage. Her -husband had been treasurer of the road when I was -an under Vice President. He speculated in the road’s -funds and it so happened that, when he was about to -be caught, I was the only man who could save him from -exposure. Instead of asking me directly, he sent his -wife to me. I can see her now as she was that day—pale, -haggard, but with that perfect composure which -deceives the average human being into thinking, “Here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span> -is a person without nerves.” She told me the whole -story in the manner of one relating a matter in which -he has a sympathetic but remote interest. She made -not the smallest attempt to work upon my feelings, to -move me to pity. “And,” she ended, “if you will help -him cover up the shortage, it will be made good and -he will resign. I shall see to it that he does not take -another position of trust.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t he come to me, himself?” said I. -“Why did he send you?”</p> - -<p>She looked at me—a steady gaze from a pair of -melancholy gray eyes. “I cannot answer that,” said -she.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” stammered I; for I guessed -the answer to my question even as I was asking it. I -knew the man—an arrogant coward, with the vanity -to lure him into doing preposterous things and wilting -weakness the instant trouble began to gather. “You -wish me to save him?” I said, still confused and not -knowing how to meet the situation.</p> - -<p>“I am asking rather for myself,” replied she. “I -married him against my father’s wishes and warning. -I have not loved him since the second month of our -marriage. If he should be exposed, I think the disgrace -would kill me.” Her lip curled in self-scorn. -“A queer kind of pride, isn’t it?” she said. “To be -able to live through the real shame, and to shrink only -from the false.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll do it,” said I, with a sudden complete change -of intention. “That is, if you promise me he will -resign and not try to get a similar position elsewhere.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>“I promise,” said she, rising, to show that she was -taking not a moment more of my time than was unavoidable. -“And I thank you”—and that was all.</p> - -<p>I kept my part of the agreement; she kept hers. -In about two years she divorced him because he was -flagrantly untrue to her. He married the woman and -supported her and himself on the allowance Mary Kirkwood -made him as soon as her father’s death let her into -her share of the property. When I saw her again—one -night at dinner at her brother’s house, before his -wife divorced him—we met as if we were entire strangers. -Neither of us made the remotest allusion to that -first meeting.</p> - -<p>Going down to her house with Armitage often and -being with her on the yacht for days together, I became -fairly well acquainted with her, although she maintained -the reserve which she did not increase for a stranger -or drop even with her brother. You felt as if her -personality were a large and interesting house, with -room after room worth seeing, most attractive—but -that no one ever was admitted beyond the drawing-room, -not for a glimpse.</p> - -<p>Don’t picture her as of the somber sort of person. -A real tragedy can befall only a person with a highly -sensitive nature. Such persons always have sense of -proportion and sense of humor. They do not exaggerate -themselves; they see the amusing side of the -antics of the human animal. So they do not pull long -faces and swathe themselves in yards of crêpe and try -to create an impression of dark and gloomy sorrow. -They do not find woe a luxury; they know it in its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span> -grim horror. They strive to get the joy out of life. -So, looking at Mary Kirkwood, you would never have -suspected a secret of sadness, a blighted life. As her -reserve did not come from self-consciousness—either the -self-consciousness of haughtiness or that of shyness and -greenness—you did not even suspect reserve until you -had known her long and had tried in vain to get -as well acquainted with her as you thought you were -at first. I imagine that in our talk in my office about -her husband I got further into the secret of her than -anyone else ever had.</p> - -<p>One detail I shall put by itself, so important does -it seem to me. She had a keen sense of humor. It -was not merely passive, merely appreciation, as the -sense of humor is apt to be in women—where it exists -at all. It was also active; she said droll and even -witty things. When her sense of humor was aroused, -her eyes were bewitching.</p> - -<p>What did she look like? The women all wish to -know this; for, being fond of the evanescent triumphs -over the male which beauty of face or form gives, and -as a rule having experience only of those petty victories, -they fancy that looks are the important factor, -the all-important factor. In fact, the real conquests -of women are not won by looks. Beauty, or, rather, -physical charm of some kind, is the lure that draws the -desired male within range. If after pausing a while -he finds nothing more, he is off again.</p> - -<p>Perhaps, probably, my experience with Edna has -made me more indifferent to looks than the average man -who has never realized his longing to possess a physically<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span> -beautiful woman. However that may be, Mary -Kirkwood certainly had no cause to complain that -Nature had not been generous to her in the matter of -looks. She was tall, she was slender. She had a delicate -oval face, a skin that was clear and smooth and dark -with the much prized olive tints in it. She had a beautiful -long neck, a great quantity of almost black hair. -Her nose suggested pride, her mouth mockery, her eyes -sincerity. She was the kind of woman who exercises -a powerful physical fascination over men, and at the -same time makes them afraid to show their feelings. -Women like that tantalize with visions of what they -could and would give the man they loved, but make -each man feel that it would be idle for him to hope. -In character she was very different from her cynical, -mocking brother—was, I imagine, more like her father. -Mentally the resemblance between the brother and sister -was strong—but she took pains to conceal how much -she knew, where he found his chief pleasure in “showing -off.” I feel I have fallen pitifully short of doing her -justice in this description. But who can put into words -such a subtlety as charm? She had it—for men. Women -did not like her—nor she them. I state this without -fear of prejudicing either women or men against her. -Why is it, by the way, that to say a man does not like -men and is not liked by them is to damn him utterly, -while to say that a woman neither likes nor is liked by -her own sex is rather to speak in her favor? You cry -indignantly, “Not true!” gentle reader. But—do <i>you</i> -know what is true and what not true? And, if you -did, would you confess it, even to yourself?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>You are proceeding to revenge yourself upon me. -You are saying, “<i>Now</i> we know <i>why</i> he was indifferent -to his beautiful wife and to his lovely daughter!—<i>Now</i> -we understand that fit of guilty conscience in -London!”</p> - -<p>Do you know? Perhaps. I am not sure. I am -not conscious of any especial interest in Mary Kirkwood -until after I came back from London. I had seen -her but a few times. We had never talked so long as -five consecutive minutes, and then we had talked commonplaces. -Not the commonplaces of fashionable people, -but the commonplaces of intelligent people. There’s -an enormous difference.</p> - -<p>The first time my memory records her with the vividness -of moving pictures is, of course, at that meeting in -my office. The next time is a few days after my return -from London. I had been surfeited both in London and -on the steamer with the inane amateurs at life, the shallow -elegant dabblers in it, interesting themselves only -in coaching, bridge, and similar pastimes worthy an -asylum for the feeble-minded. I went down to the Kirkwood -place with Armitage. As his sister was not in -the house we set out for a walk through the grounds to -find her. At the outer edge of the gardens a workman -told us that if we would follow a path through the -swampy woods we could not miss her.</p> - -<p>The path was the roughest kind of a trail. Our -journey was beset with swarms of insects, most of them -mosquitoes in savage humor. It lay along the course -of a sluggish narrow stream that looked malarious and -undoubtedly was. “Landscape gardening is one of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[223]</span> -Mary’s fads,” explained her brother. “She has been -planning to tackle this swamp for several years. Now -she is at it.”</p> - -<p>In the depths of the morass we came upon her. She -was in man’s clothes—laboring man’s clothes. Her -face and neck were protected by veils, her hands by -gloves. She was toiling away with a gang of men at -clearing the ground where the drains were to center in -an artificial lake. Armitage called several times before -she heard. Then she dropped her ax and came -forward to meet us. There was certainly nothing of -what is usually regarded as feminine allure about her. -Yet never had I seen a woman more fascinating. There -undoubtedly was charm in her face and in her strong, -slender figure. But I believe the real charm of charms -for me was the spectacle of a woman usefully employed. -A woman actually doing something. A woman!</p> - -<p>After the greeting she said: “The only way I can -get the men to work in this pesthole is by working with -them.” She smiled merrily. “One doesn’t look so well -as in a fresh tennis suit wielding a racket. But I can’t -bear doing things that have no results.”</p> - -<p>“My father insisted on bringing us up in the commonest -way and with the commonest tastes,” said Armitage, -“and Mary has remained even less the lady than -I am the gentleman.”</p> - -<p>As the mosquitoes were tearing us to pieces Mrs. -Kirkwood ordered us back to the house. Before we were -out of sight she was leading on her gang and wielding -the ax again. At dinner she appeared in all the radiance -and grace of the beautiful woman with fondness for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span> -and taste in dress. She explained to me her plan—how -swamp and sluggish, rotting brook were to be transformed -into a wooded park with a swift, clear stream -and a succession of cascades. I may add, she carried -out the plan, and the results were even beyond what my -imagination pictured as she talked.</p> - -<p>This first view of her life in the country set me to -observing her closely—perhaps more closely and from a -different standpoint than a man usually observes a -woman. In all she did I saw the same rare and fascinating -imagination—the only kind of imagination worth -while. Of all its stupidities and follies none so completely -convicts the human race of shallowness and bad -taste as its notions of what is romantic and idealistic. -The more elegant the human animal flatters itself it is, -the poorer are its ideals—that is, the further removed -from the practical and the useful. So, you rarely find -a woman with so much true poetry, true romance, true -imagination as to keep house well. But Mary Kirkwood -kept house as a truly great artist paints a picture, as -a truly great composer creates an opera. In all her -house there was not a trace of the crude, costly luxury -that rivals the squalor and bareness of poverty in repulsiveness -to people of sense and taste. But what -comfort! What splendid cooking, what perfection of -service. The chairs and sofas, the beds, the linen, the -hundred and one small but important devices for facilitating -the material side of life, and so putting mind and -spirit in the mood for their best— But I despair of -making you realize. I should have to catalogue, describe, -contrast through page after page. And when I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span> -had finished, those who understand what the phrase art -of living means would have read only what they already -know, while those who do not understand that phrase -would be convulsed with the cackling laughter that is -the tribute of mush-brain to intellect.</p> - -<p>Observing Mary Kirkwood I discovered a great -truth about the woman question: the crudest indictment -of the intellect of woman is the crude, archaic, futile, -and unimaginative way in which is carried on the part -of life that is woman’s peculiar work—or, rather, is -messed, muddled, slopped, and neglected. No doubt this -is not their fault. But it soon will be if they don’t bestir -themselves. Already there are American men not -a few who apologize for having married as a folly of their -green and silly youth.</p> - -<p>So, gentle reader, though my enthusiasm tempts me -to describe Mary Kirkwood’s housekeeping in detail, I -shall spare you. You would not read. You would not -understand if you did.</p> - -<p>The first time she and I approached the confidential -was on an August evening when we were alone on the -upper deck of the yacht. The others were in the cabin -playing bridge. We had been sitting there perhaps an -hour when she rose.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I thought you wished to be alone,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Why did you think that?”</p> - -<p>“Your way of answering me. You’ve been almost -curt.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry. I can’t promise to talk if you stay. -But I hate to be left alone with my thoughts.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>“I understand,” said she. And she seated herself -beside the rail, and with my assistance lighted a cigarette.</p> - -<p>There was a moon somewhere above the awning which -gave us a roof. By the dim, uncertain light I could -make out her features. It seemed to me she was staying -as much on her own account as on mine—because she, -too, wished not to be alone with her thoughts. I had -not in a long time seen her in a frankly serious mood.</p> - -<p>“How much better off a man is than a woman,” said -I. “A man has his career to think about, while a woman -usually has only herself.”</p> - -<p>“Only herself,” echoed she absently. “And if one -is able to think, oneself is an unsatisfactory subject.”</p> - -<p>“Extremely,” said I. “Faults, follies, failures.”</p> - -<p>For a time I watched the faintly glowing end of her -cigarette and the slim fingers that held it gracefully. -Then she said:</p> - -<p>“Do you believe in a future life?”</p> - -<p>“Does anyone feel <i>sure</i> of any life but this?”</p> - -<p>“Then this is one’s only chance to get what one -wants—what’s worth while.”</p> - -<p>“What <i>is</i> worth while?” I inquired, feeling the -charm of her quiet, sweet voice issuing upon the magical -stillness. “What <i>is</i> worth while?”</p> - -<p>She laughed softly. “What one wants.”</p> - -<p>“And what do <i>you</i> want?”</p> - -<p>She drew her white scarf closer about her bare shoulders, -smiled queerly out over the lazily rippling waters. -“Love and children,” she said. “I’m a normal woman.”</p> - -<p>That amused me. “Normal? Why, you’re unique—eccentric.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span> -Most women want money—and yet more -money—and yet more money—for more and more and -always more show.”</p> - -<p>“You must want the same thing,” retorted she. -“You’re too sensible not to know you can’t possibly do -any good to others with money. So you must want it -for your own selfish purposes. It’s every bit as much -for show when you have it tucked away in large masses -for people to gape at as if you were throwing it round -as the women do.... If anything, your passion is -cruder than theirs.”</p> - -<p>“I think I make money,” said I, “for the same reasons -that a hen lays eggs or a cow gives milk—because -I can’t help it; because I can’t do anything else and -must do something.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever try to do anything else?”</p> - -<p>“No,” I admitted. Then I added, “I never had the -chance.”</p> - -<p>“True,” she said reflectively. “A hen can’t give -milk and a cow can’t lay eggs.”</p> - -<p>“For some time,” I went on, “I’ve been trying to -find something else to do. Something interesting. No, -not exactly that either. I must find some way of reviving -my interest in life. The things I am doing would -be interesting enough if I could be interested in anything -at all. But I’m not.”</p> - -<p>She nodded slowly. “I’m in the same state,” said -she. “I’ve about decided what to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” said I encouragingly.</p> - -<p>“Marry again,” replied she.</p> - -<p>I laughed outright. “That’s very unoriginal,” said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span> -I. “It puts you in with the rest of the women. Marrying -is all <i>they</i> can think of doing.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t quite understand,” said she. “<i>I</i> -want children. I am thinking of selecting some trustworthy -man with good physical and mental qualities. -I have had experience. I ought to be able to judge—and -not being in love with him I shall not be so likely -to make a mistake. I shall marry, and the children will -give me love and occupation. You may laugh, but I tell -you the only occupation worthy of a man or a woman is -bringing up children. All the rest—for men as well as -for women—is—is like a hen laying eggs to rot in the -weeds.... Bringing up children to develop us, to -give us a chance to make them an improvement on ourselves. -That’s the best.”</p> - -<p>As the full meaning of what she had said unfolded -I was filled with astonishment. How clear and simple—how -true. Why had I not seen this long ago—why had -it been necessary to have it pointed out by another? -“I believe—yes, I’m sure—that’s what I’ve been groping -for,” I said to her.</p> - -<p>“I thought you’d understand,” said she, and most -flattering was her tone of pleasure at my obvious admiration.</p> - -<p>Thus our friendship was born.</p> - -<p>I could not but envy her freedom to seek to satisfy -the longing I thus discovered in my own heart. So -strongly did the mood for confidence possess me that -only my long and hard training in self-restraint held -me from the disloyalty of speaking my thoughts. I -said:</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[229]</span>“It’s dismal to grow old with no ties in the oncoming -generation. The sense of the utter futility of life -would weigh more and more heavily. I’m surprised that -you’ve realized it so young.”</p> - -<p>“A woman realizes it earlier than a man,” she reminded -me. “For a woman has no career to interfere -and prevent her seeing the truth.”</p> - -<p>A woman! Rather, a rare occasional Mary Kirkwood. -Most women never looked beyond the gratification -of the crudest, easiest vanities and appetites. “Yes, -you are right,” I continued. “You ought to marry—as -soon as you can. The man isn’t important, except in -the ways you spoke of. So far as man and woman love -is concerned, that quickly passes—where it ever exists -at all. But the bond of father, mother, and children is -enduring—at least, I’m sure <i>you</i> would make it so.”</p> - -<p>We sat lost in thought for some time—I reflecting -moodily upon my own baffled and now seemingly hopeless -longing, she probably busy with the ideas suggested -in her next speech.</p> - -<p>“The main trouble is money,” said she. “Except -for that my husband would have been all right. When -we first met he did not know my family had wealth. He -thought I belonged to another and poor branch. And I -think he cared for me, and would have been the man I -sought but for the money. It roused a dormant side of -his nature, and everything went to pieces.”</p> - -<p>“Then, marry a rich man,” I suggested.</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “I don’t know a single rich -man—except <i>possibly</i> my brother—who isn’t obsessed -about money. The rich have a craving to be richer that’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span> -worse than the desire of the poor to be rich.... I don’t -know what to do. I couldn’t bring up children in the -atmosphere of wealth and caste and show—the sort of -atmosphere a man or woman crazy about money insists -on creating. My father was right. He was a really -wise man. I owe to him every good instinct and good -idea I have.”</p> - -<p>“But you must have seen some man who promised -well. I think you can trust to your judgment. You -mustn’t defeat your one chance for happiness by overcaution.”</p> - -<p>Again she was silent for several minutes. Then she -said, with a queer laugh and an embarrassed movement: -“I have seen such a man—lately. I like him. I think -I could like him more than a little. I’ve an idea he might -care for me if I’d let him. But—I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>I saw that she longed to confide, but wished to be -questioned. “Here on the yacht?” said I.</p> - -<p>She nodded.</p> - -<p>“Beechman?”</p> - -<p>She laughed shyly yet with amusement.</p> - -<p>“That was an easy guess,” said I. “He’s the only -man of us free to marry.”</p> - -<p>“What do you think of him?”</p> - -<p>“The very man I’d say,” replied I. “He’s good to -look at—clever, healthy, and honest. He isn’t money-mad. -He could make quite a splurge with what he -has, yet he doesn’t. He is a serious man—does not let -them tempt him into fashionable society or any other -kind.”</p> - -<p>“What are the objections?” said she. “My father<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span> -trained us to look for the rotten spots, as he called them. -He said one ought to hunt them out and examine them -carefully. Then if, in spite of them, the thing still -looked good, why there was a chance of its being worth -taking.”</p> - -<p>“That’s precisely my way of proceeding in business,” -said I. “It’s a pity it isn’t used in every part of -life—from marketing up to choosing a friend or a husband.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what are the ‘rotten spots’ in Mr. Beechman?”</p> - -<p>“I haven’t looked for them,” said I. “No doubt -they’re there, but as they’re not obvious they may be -unimportant.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you think of <i>any</i>?”</p> - -<p>She was laughing, and so was I. Poor Beechman, -down in the cabin absorbed in bridge, how amazed he’d -have been if he could have heard! In my mind’s eye I -was looking him over—a tall, fair man with good smooth-shaven -features.</p> - -<p>“He’s getting bald rather rapidly for a man of -thirty or thereabouts,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like baldness,” said she. “But I can endure -it.”</p> - -<p>“He is distinctly vain of his looks and his strength. -But he has cause to be.”</p> - -<p>“All men are physically vain,” said she. “And they -can’t help it, because it is the hereditary quality of the -male from fishes and reptiles up.”</p> - -<p>“He’s inclined to be opinionated, and his point of -view is narrow.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>“I think I might hope to educate him out of that,” -said she. “I can be tactful.”</p> - -<p>“It’s certainly not a serious objection.”</p> - -<p>“Any other spots?”</p> - -<p>“He has a certain—a certain—lack of vigor. It’s -a thing I’ve observed in all professional men, except -those of the first rank, those who are really men of -action.”</p> - -<p>She nodded. “I was waiting for that,” said she. -“It’s the thing that has made me hesitate.” She laughed -outright. “What a conceited speech! But I’m exposing -myself fully to you.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I am picking him to pieces as if I thought myself -perfection. As a matter of fact, I know he’d fly from -me if he saw me as I am.” She reflected, laughed -quietly. “But he never would know me as I am. An -unconventional woman—if she’s sensible—only shows -enough of her variation from the pattern to make herself -interesting—never enough to be alarming.”</p> - -<p>“You are unconventional?”</p> - -<p>“You didn’t suspect it?”</p> - -<p>“No. You smoke cigarettes—but that has ceased -to be unconventional.”</p> - -<p>“I rather thought you had a favorable opinion of -my intelligence,” said she.</p> - -<p>“So I have,” said I. “To be perfectly frank, -you seemed to me to have as good a mind as your -brother.”</p> - -<p>“That is flattering,” said she, immensely pleased, -and with reason. “Well, if you thought so favorably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span> -of my intelligence, how could you believe me conventional?”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said I. “No one who thinks can be conventional.”</p> - -<p>“Conventionality,” said she, “was invented to save -some people the trouble of thinking and to prevent -others from being outrageous through trying to think -when they’ve nothing to think with.”</p> - -<p>“That is worth remembering and repeating,” -laughed I. “Personally, I’m deeply grateful for conventionality. -You see, I came up from the bottom, and -I find it satisfactory to be able to refer to the rules in -all the things I knew nothing about.”</p> - -<p>“My brother says the most remarkable thing about -you—and your wife— Do you mind my telling you?”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He says most people who come up are alternately -hopeless barbarians and hopelessly conventional, but -that you took the right course. You learned to be -conventional—learned the rules—before you ventured -to try to make personal variations in them.”</p> - -<p>“I’m slow to risk variations,” said I. “Most of -the efforts in that direction are—eccentric. And I detest -eccentricity as much as I like originality.”</p> - -<p>“If Mr. Beechman were only a little less conventional!” -sighed she. “I’m afraid he’d be rather—” -She hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Tiresome?” I ventured to suggest.</p> - -<p>“Tiresome,” she assented. “But—there would be -the children. Do you think he’d try to interfere with -me there?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span>“You’ll never know that until you’ve married him,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“It’s a pity he has an occupation that would keep -him round the house most of the time,” said she. -“That’s a trial to a woman. She’s always being interrupted -when she wishes to be free.”</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t expect too much,” said I. “I think -the children will be <i>your</i> children.”</p> - -<p>She did not reply in words. But a sudden strengthening -of her expression made me feel that I was getting -a glimpse of her father.</p> - -<p>We talked no more of Beechman or of any personalities -related to this story. When the bridge party -broke up and a supper was served on deck, she and -Beechman sat together. And I gathered from the -sounds coming from their direction that he was making -progress. My spirits gradually oozed away and I sat -glumly pretending to listen while Mrs. Raphael talked -to me. Usually she interested me because she talked -what she knew and knew things worth while. But that -night I heard scarcely a word she said. When the -party, one by one, began to go below, Mrs. Kirkwood -joined me and found an opportunity to say, aside:</p> - -<p>“Won’t you talk with Mr. Beechman—and tell -me your honest opinion? You know I can’t afford to -make another mistake. And I’m in earnest.”</p> - -<p>I stood silent, smoking and staring out toward the -dim Connecticut shore.</p> - -<p>“It wouldn’t be unfair to him,” she urged. -“You’re not especially his friend. I can’t ask anyone -else, and I believe in your judgment.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span>“If I advised you, I’d be taking a heavy responsibility,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“I’m not that kind—you know I’m not,” replied -she. “I don’t ask advice, to have some one to blame if -things go wrong. Of course, if there’s a reason why -you can’t very well help me— Maybe you already -know something against him?—something you’ve no -right to tell?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing,” said I, emphatically. “And I don’t -believe there is anything against him.” Then, on an -impulse of fairness and to wipe out the suspicion of -Beechman I had unwittingly created, I said: “Really, -there’s no reason why I shouldn’t size him up and give -you my opinion. I’ll do my best.”</p> - -<p>She thanked me with a fine lighting up of the eyes. -And the warm friendly pressure of her hand lingered -after she had long been below and was no doubt asleep.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>What was my reason for hesitating? You have -guessed it, but you think I do not intend to admit. -You are deceived there. I admit frankly. I felt unable -to advise her because I found that I was in love -with her, myself. Yes, I was in love, and for the first -time in my life. The latest time of falling in love is -always the first. As we become older and more experienced, -better acquainted with the world, with ourselves, -with what we want and do not want—in a word, as we -<i>grow</i>, the meaning of love grows. And each time we -love, we see, as we look back over the previous times, -that what we thought was love was in fact simply educational.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>So, when I say I had never loved until I loved Mary -Kirkwood, I am speaking a truth which is worth thinking -about. I had reached the age, the stage of physical -and mental development, at which a man’s capacities -are at their largest—at which I could give love and -could appreciate love that was given to me. And I, who -could not ask or hope love from her, gave her all the love -I had to give. Gave because I could not help giving. -Who, seeing the best, can help wanting it?</p> - -<p>But for my promise to her I should have left the -yacht early the following morning. As it was I stayed -on, with my mind made up to keep my word. Did I -stay because of my promise? Did I stay because I -loved her? I do not know. Who can fathom the real -motive in such a situation as that? I can only say that -I sought Beechman’s society and did my best to take -his measure. It had been so long my habit to judge -men without regard to my personal feeling about them -that, perhaps in spite of myself, I saw this man as he -was, not as I should have liked him to be. I found that -I had underestimated him. I had been prejudiced by -his taking himself too seriously—a form of vanity which -I happen particularly to detest. Also his sense of humor -was different from mine—a fact that had misled -me into thinking he had no sense of humor. I had -thought—shall I say hoped?—that I would find him -a man she could respect but could not love. I was -forced to abandon this idea. So far as a man can judge -another for a woman, he could succeed with almost any -heart-free woman. I wondered that Mary Kirkwood -should be uncertain about him. I might have drawn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span> -comfort from her having done so, had I not known how -she dreaded making a second mistake.</p> - -<p>That day and the next, when I was not with him, -she was. I shan’t attempt to tell my emotions. That -sort of thing seems absurd to all the world but the one -who is suffering. Besides, the fact that I was a married -man would alienate the sympathies of all respectable -readers. Not that I am yearning for sympathy. -Those who have read thus far may have possibly gathered -that I am not one of those who live on sympathy -and wither and die without it. The only sympathy -human beings seem able to give one another, I have discovered, -is a species of self-complacent pity; and while -it may not be exactly a stone, it is certainly a most inferior -quality of bread.</p> - -<p>The third morning I sought her out. She made -a picture of strong, slim young womanhood to cause -the heart—at least, my heart—to ache, as she leaned -against the rail in her blue-trimmed white linen dress -showing her lovely throat. Said I, avoiding her eyes: -“I’m off for the shore, and I wish to report before -leaving.”</p> - -<p>“Ashore!” she cried. “Why, you were to have -gone on to Bar Harbor and back again.”</p> - -<p>“Business—always business.”</p> - -<p>“I’m disappointed,” said she, and I saw with a furtive -glance that her face had quite lost its brightness.</p> - -<p>“I’m glad of that, at least,” said I with a successful -enough attempt at lightness; for, as I have never been -the sort of man in whom women expect to find sentimentalism, -signs of embarrassment or other agitation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span> -would be attributed to any other source before the -heart.</p> - -<p>“I’ve lost interest in the trip,” she declared.</p> - -<p>I forced a smile. “Beechman isn’t going.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s different,” said she, with a certain frank -impatience. “You’re the one person I can really talk -to.... Can’t you stay?”</p> - -<p>I did not let my face betray me. I waited before -speaking until I was sure of my voice. “Impossible,” -I said, perhaps rather curtly—for, mind you, I wished -to deal honestly with her, and was not trying to hint my -love while pretending to hide it. I know there is a notion -that love cannot be controlled. But the kind of love -that can’t be controlled is a selfish, greedy appetite and -not love at all. When the man doesn’t control his love -the woman may be sure he is thinking of himself only, -of her merely as a possible means of pleasure—is thinking -of her as the hungry hunter thinks of the fine fat -rabbit. Said I:</p> - -<p>“Now for my report on Beechman.”</p> - -<p>But she would not let me escape. “Why are you -short with me?” she asked. “Have I offended you?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said I. “You’ve been everything -that’s kind and friendly.”</p> - -<p>“The very idea of losing your friendship frightens -me,” she went on. “I’ve a feeling for you—a feeling -of—of intimacy”—she flushed rosily—“that I have -for no one else in the world. Oh, I don’t expect you to -return it. No doubt I seem insignificant to you. Almost -anyone would want your friendship. You are -sure you aren’t leaving because you are bored?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>“Absolutely sure. If I could explain my reason for -going you would see that I must. But I can’t explain. -So you’ll be glad to hear that I find Beechman even -more of a man than I thought.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me apologetically. “You’ll think me -foolish, but since I’ve begun to try to like him better -I’ve been—almost—not liking him.”</p> - -<p>I am sure I beamed with delight. For, there are -limits—very narrow ones—to unselfishness in the most -considerate love. And I am not able to pose as more -than feebly unselfish. “That isn’t fair to him,” I said, -with more enthusiasm in my words than in my tone. -“I’ve been judging him as carefully as I know how, and -I must in honesty say he is a rare man. You’ll not find -many like him.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me he’s worthy,” she cried, “or I shall -loathe him.”</p> - -<p>“And he cares for you,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Did he tell you so?”</p> - -<p>“I think he would have if I had encouraged him.... -I liked the way he spoke of you, and”—I hesitated, -could not hold back the words—“and I am not -easy to please there.” Those words were certainly far -from confession, were the mildest form of indiscretion. -Still, so determined was I to be square, and so guilty -did I feel, that they sounded like a contemptible attempt -stealthily to make love to her.</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” she said gently. And her suddenly -swimming eyes and tender voice reminded me how alone -she was and how bitter her experience had been and -how she deserved happiness.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>I felt ashamed of myself. “I hope you will be -happy,” I said, perhaps rather huskily. “Anyone who -tried to prevent it would deserve to be killed.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me with such a steady, penetrating -gaze that I feared I had betrayed myself. In fact, I -knew I had. I glanced at my watch, put out my hand. -“I hate to go,” I said, in the tone of one man to another. -“But I must.” And as we shook hands, I repeated, -“I know you will be happy.”</p> - -<p>She laughed nervously; she, too, had become ill at -ease. “You make me feel engaged,” she said with an -attempt at mockery.</p> - -<p>As the launch touched the shore I looked back. She -was leaning on the rail, Beechman beside her. He was -talking, but I felt sure she was not listening. As I -looked she waved her hand. I lifted my hat and hurried -away. And I learned the meaning of that word desolation.</p> - -<p>Do not think, because I have not raved, talked of -the moon and stars, poetized about my soul states, -that therefore I did not love her. The banquet of -life spread so richly for me seemed a ghastly mockery. -What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world -and lose his own soul? I had lost my soul. I had -discovered how I might have been happy, and at the -same time I had discovered that it could never be—never. -And always before me she stood in her radiant -youth—intelligent, so capable, splendidly sincere—the -woman I loved, the woman I felt I could have made -love me.</p> - -<p>There was my temptation—the feeling, the conviction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span> -that I could win her love. She had confessed to a -friendship for me different from any she had for anyone -else in the world. If I were willing to take advantage -of her trust, of her liking, of her longing for love -and of my knowledge of it—if I were to let her see -how utterly I loved her—I could surely win her. There -were times when I said to myself: “You—even as you -are—can make her happier than anyone else could. She -would prefer what you can give her to what she will get -from Beechman. Your love gives you the right to -make her happy. You are letting foolish conventional -notions blind you to what is really right. If you had -acted in business in that fashion, you would not have -got far. Yet in the supreme crisis of your life you let -yourself be frightened off by a bogy of conventional -morality.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps I was giving myself sound advice there. I -do not know. I only know that I put the temptation -behind me and went to work. The sentimental readers -will not forgive me. So be it. I am a plain man, rather -old-fashioned—prim, I believe it is called—in my ideas, -not at all the ladies’ man. And I did not want to harm -her. I loved her.</p> - -<p>I went to work. The sort of people who are ever -on the lookout for some excuse for going to pieces, -and the world is well sprinkled with them, eagerly -seize on disappointment in love as precisely what they -were seeking. At the risk of being thought cold and -hard, I will say that it is extremely fortunate for Joan -that she escaped the Darby who goes smash for disappointed -love of her. If Joan had yielded to him, Darby<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[242]</span> -would simply have been put to the trouble of finding -another pretext for throwing up his job and taking to -drink. I confess it did not occur to me to give up -and fall to boozing and brooding. I should not have -dared do that; for, you see, I was really in love—not -with myself, but with Mary Kirkwood. I went to work. -I filled my days and my evenings with business engagements -that compelled both my time and my thought. -I took on an extra secretary. I started to build a -railway. I laid out an addition to the manufacturing -city I had founded. I organized a farm for teaching -city slum boys to be farmers. I engaged in several -entirely new mining and manufacturing enterprises. -The result was that when I went to bed, I slept; and -when they awakened me in the morning my brain was at -work before my head was well off the pillow. And still— You -can distract your mind from the aching tooth, but -it aches on.</p> - -<p>All this time I was receiving weekly letters from -Edna and Margot—long and loving letters. I read -them, and you may possibly imagine I was filled with -shame and remorse. Not at all. My wife and my -daughter had rather exaggerated my vanity. Only -vanity could gull a husband and father in my position -into fancying himself the object of such luxuriant -affection as those letters professed. If you have lies -to tell, take my advice and don’t <i>write</i> them. I can’t -explain the mystery, but a lie which, spoken and heard, -passes out and passes in as smoothly as a greased shuttle -in its greased groove, becomes a glaring falsehood -when set down in black and white. The only effect of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span> -those letters upon me was to make my sick heart the -sadder with the realization of what I had missed in -losing Mary Kirkwood.</p> - -<p>And I kept wondering what it was that Edna and -Margot were slathering me for.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>In September I got the key to the mystery. The -necessity of floating some bonds took me abroad again. -I found my family ensconced in beautiful luxury in an -apartment in Paris. You drove out the Champs Elysées. -Not far from the President’s palace you drove in -at great doors—not gates, but doors—in a plain, unpretentious-looking -house wall. You were in a superb -garden of whose existence you had no hint from the -street. Magnificent bronze inner doors—powdered and -velveted lackeys—a majestic stairway leading to lofty -and gorgeous corridors and salons. Really my wife, -with the aid of those clever European professors of the -aristocratic art, had educated herself amazingly. On -every side there were evidences of her good taste in -furniture, in tapestries, in wall coverings, in pictures. -It was not the taste of a home maker, but it was -unquestionably good taste. It was not the sort of -taste I liked, but not to admire it would have been -to lack the sense of harmony in line and color. And -let me add in justice to her, it was her own taste. -There is no mistaking the difference between the -luxury that is merely bought and the luxury that is -created.</p> - -<p>I submitted with what grace I could muster to the -exuberant hypocrisies of that greeting. But I got to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span> -business with all speed. “In the note I found in London -you said you had a surprise for me,” I said to -Edna. “What is it?”</p> - -<p>“How impatient you are,” laughed she. “Just like -a child.”</p> - -<p>Whether because the fashions of the day happened -to be peculiarly becoming or because she had actually -improved, she now had the loveliness more exquisite -than I had ever seen in woman. No doubt her piquant -face had charm for most people; for me it had none -whatever. I knew too well what lay beneath—or, -rather, what was not there, for like most human beings -her defects of character were not so much the presence -of the vices as the lack of the virtues.</p> - -<p>“I’ve been waiting for that surprise several months,” -said I. “Your letters and Margot’s showed that some -shock was coming.”</p> - -<p>“Shock? No, indeed!” And she and Margot -laughed gayly. “It isn’t altogether a surprise,” she -went on. “Can’t you guess?”</p> - -<p>I looked at Margot. “Ah!” I said. “Margot is -engaged.”</p> - -<p>Margot ran across the room and kissed me. “Oh, -I’m so happy, papa!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Is it the duke?” I asked.</p> - -<p>She made a wry face. “He was horrid!” she said. -“I couldn’t <i>endure</i> him.”</p> - -<p>“So you had to fall back on the marquis?”</p> - -<p>Neither of the women liked this way of putting the -matter. It suggested that I knew the painful truth of -the failure of the ducal campaign. But they were not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span> -to be put out of humor. “You liked him yourself, -papa,” said Margot.</p> - -<p>I was abstractedly thinking how I had no sense of -her being my daughter or of Edna being my wife. -You would say that after all we three had been through -together, from Passaic up, it would be a sheer impossibility -for there ever to be a sense of strangeness between -us. But there is no limit to the power of the -human soul to cut itself off; intimacy is hard to maintain, -isolation—alas—is the natural state. I looked -on them as strangers; I could feel that, in spite of -their clever, resolute forcing, in spite of the hypocrisy -of love for me which each doubtless maintained at all -times with the other, still they could scarcely hide their -feeling that I was a strange man come in from the -street.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I liked Crossley,” said I. “I think he’ll -make you a good husband.”</p> - -<p>“He is <i>mad</i> about her!” said Edna. “There was -a while this summer when he thought he had lost her, -and he all but went out of his mind.”</p> - -<p>To look at her was to believe it; for, a lovelier girl -was never displayed in all her physical perfection by -a more discriminating mother.</p> - -<p>“When is the wedding to be?” said I.</p> - -<p>There was a brief, surcharged silence—no more -than a pause. Then Edna said indifferently, “As soon -as the settlements are arranged.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—is he settling something on her?” said I, -with pretended innocence. “I’m glad of that. There’s -been too much of the other sort of thing.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>Margot came to the rescue with a charming laugh. -“Poor Hugh!” she said. “He hasn’t anything but -mortgages.”</p> - -<p>“Um—I see,” said I glumly—and I observed intense -anxiety behind the smiles in those two pairs of -beautiful eyes. “How much have we got to pay for -him?”</p> - -<p>Edna looked reproachfully at me. “Margot,” said -she, “you’d better go tell them to serve lunch in fifteen -minutes.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said I cheerfully. “Let her stay. -What’s the use of this hypocrisy? She knows he cares -no more about her than she cares about him—that it’s -simply a matter of buying and selling. If she doesn’t -know it, if she’s letting her vanity bamboozle her——”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey—please!” implored Edna. “Don’t -smirch the child’s romance. She and Hugh love -each other. If she were poor, he’d marry her just the -same.”</p> - -<p>“Has he offered to go ahead, regardless of settlements?” -I asked.</p> - -<p>“Of course not, papa,” flashed Margot. “Things -aren’t done that way over here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, they are,” replied I. “Romantic love -matches occur every day. Even royalty throws up its -rights, to marry a chorus girl. But when there’s a -fat American goose to pluck and eat, why, they pluck -and eat it. I’m the goose, my dear—not you.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand,” murmured Margot.</p> - -<p>“I wish I didn’t,” said I. “And I wish you didn’t -have to understand. If possible I want to arrange<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span> -matters with him so that he’ll always treat you decently.”</p> - -<p>“But, Godfrey,” cried Edna in a panic, “you can’t -talk money to <i>him</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said I. “He’s <i>thinking</i> money. -Why shouldn’t he talk it?”</p> - -<p>“He knows nothing about those things, papa——”</p> - -<p>I laughed.</p> - -<p>“You’ll ruin everything!” cried my wife. “You’ll -make us the laughingstock of Europe!”</p> - -<p>“We Americans of the rich class are that already,” -replied I.</p> - -<p>Edna must have given her daughter some secret -signal, for she abruptly and hastily left the room, -closing the door behind her. I shrugged my shoulders, -settled back on the exquisitely upholstered and carved -sofa on which I had seated myself. Looking round I -said, “This is a beautiful room. You’ve certainly arranged -a fitting background for yourself and Margot.”</p> - -<p>But she was not listening. She was watching her -fingers slowly twist and untwist the delicate little lace -handkerchief. At last she said: “Godfrey, I’ve never -asked a favor of you. I’ve given my whole life to advancing -your interests—to making our child a perfect -lady—and to placing her in a dazzling position.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I. “You have worked hard—and -you’ve made your tricks.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve played my hand well—as you have yours,” -said she, accepting my rather unrefined figure with -good grace. “I began to make Margot’s career before -she was born. The first time I saw her little face, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[248]</span> -murmured to myself, ‘Little Duchess.’ Now, you understand -why I brought her up so carefully.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said I, looking at her with new interest. -“That was it?” I who knew what a futile, purposeless, -easily discouraged breed the human race is could -not but admire this woman. If her intelligence had -only been equal to her will, what might she not have -accomplished!</p> - -<p>“I have never lost sight of it for a moment,” said -she. “In the early days—for a time—when we were -seemingly so hopelessly obscure, and I was too ignorant -to learn which way to turn—for a while I was discouraged. -But I never gave up—never! And step by step -I’ve trained her for the grand position as a leader of -European society she was one day to occupy—for, I -knew that if she led Europe she would be leader at -home, too. Over there they’re merely a feeble, crude -echo of Europe.”</p> - -<p>“Socially,” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s all we’re talking about,” replied she. -“That’s all there is worth talking about. What else -have you been piling up money for?... What else?”</p> - -<p>I could think of no reply. I was silent. What else, -indeed?</p> - -<p>“I kept her away from other children,” Edna went -on. “After she could talk I never trusted her to nurses -until we could afford fashionable servants. I got her -the right sort of governesses—so that she should speak -French, Italian, and German, and should have a well-bred -English accent for her own language. I even -trained her in the children’s stories she read—had her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span> -read only the fairy tales and the other stories that -would fill her mind with ideas of nobility and titles and -the high things of life.”</p> - -<p>“The high things of life,” said I.</p> - -<p>She made an impressive gesture—she looked like -a beautiful young empress. “Let’s not cant,” said she. -“Those <i>are</i> the high things of life. Ask any person -you meet in America—young or old, high or low—ask -him which he’d rather be—a prince, duke, marquis, -or a saint, scientist, statesman. What would he answer?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “That he’d rather be a millionaire,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“A millionaire with a title—with established social -position at the very top—that couldn’t be taken away. -That’s the truth, Godfrey.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not contradict you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“And,” she went on, “I’ve brought up our daughter -so that she could realize the highest ambition within -our reach. Haven’t I brought her up well?”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly, for the purpose,” said I.</p> - -<p>“When we came over here, I examined the ground -carefully. I was at first inclined to one of the big Continental -titles. They are much older, much more high -sounding than the English titles—and so far as birth -goes they mean something, while the English titles mean -really nothing at all. The English aristocracy isn’t -an aristocracy of birth.”</p> - -<p>“That’s, no doubt, the reason why it still has some -say in affairs,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Its talk about birth is almost entirely sham,” proceeded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span> -she, not interested in my irrelevant comment. -“But I found that it was the most substantial aristocracy, -the only one that was respected everywhere, -just as the English money circulates everywhere. And -it’s the only one that makes much of an impression at -home. We are so ignorant that we think England is -all that it pretends to be—the powerful part of Europe. -Of course, it isn’t, but—no matter. I decided for an -English title.”</p> - -<p>“And Margot?”</p> - -<p>“I have brought her up to respect my judgment,” -said Edna.</p> - -<p>“I wonder what will become of her,” said I, reflectively, -“when she hasn’t you at her elbow to tell her -what to do.... But why a marquis? Why not a -duke?”</p> - -<p>She smiled, blushed a little. “The only duke we -could have got—and he was a nice young fellow—but he -was in love with an English girl of wealth—and he -wanted too much to change to an American. Is that -frank enough to suit you?”</p> - -<p>“If you’d only keep to that key,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He wanted double the American dowry that he -was willing to take with an English girl.”</p> - -<p>“His being in love with another girl might have -made it unpleasant for Margot,” I suggested.</p> - -<p>“That wouldn’t have amounted to anything,” replied -she. “Over here the right sort of people bring -up their children as I brought up Margot—to give -their hearts where their hands should go. They are -not shallow and selfish. They think of the family dignity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span> -and honor before they think of their personal -feelings.”</p> - -<p>“That’s interesting—and new—at least to me,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“You have been judging these things without knowing, -Godfrey,” said she. “You have attacked me for -narrowness, when in fact you were the narrow one.”</p> - -<p>“Yes? What next?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I found that the Massingfords—that’s the family -name of the Marquis of Crossley—I found they ranked -higher as a family than any of the ducal families except -one. Of course I don’t include the royal dukes.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” said I gravely.</p> - -<p>“I might possibly have got one of the royal dukes—if -not in England, then here on the Continent. But -I decided— You see, Godfrey, I looked into everything.”</p> - -<p>“You certainly have been thorough,” said I. “I -should have said it was impossible in so short a time.”</p> - -<p>“But it wasn’t difficult. All the Americans over -here are well informed about these things.”</p> - -<p>“I can readily believe it,” said I. “But why did -you turn down the poor royal dukes?”</p> - -<p>“Because the other women would have made it -dreadfully uncomfortable for Margot. They’d have -hated her for taking precedence over them by such a -long distance. Then, too—the dowry. I was afraid -you couldn’t afford the dowry—or wouldn’t think the -title worth the money. Indeed, I didn’t think so, myself.”</p> - -<p>“A royal duke comes high?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>“The least dowry would be seventy-five million -francs.”</p> - -<p>“Fifteen million dollars!” I exclaimed. “Whew!”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Sinkers tried to get one for her daughter for -ten millions—all she could scrape together. They -agreed to a morganatic marriage for that, but not a full -marriage. So, she and poor Martha gave it up. -Martha’s heart is broken. The duke made love to her -so wonderfully. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Sinkers -was about, to allow such a thing before the affair was -settled. Poor Martha was so excited that she would -have accepted the morganatic marriage—she ranking -merely as the duke’s head mistress. But while he was -willing to take other mistresses for nothing, and even to -pay them, he wouldn’t take <i>her</i> for less than fifty million -francs.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Martha!” said I.</p> - -<p>“I was too wise to trifle with royal dukes,” pursued -Edna, so interested in her own narrative and so eager to -show how sagacious she had been that she forgot her -pose and her doubts as to my sympathies. “I weighed -the advantages and disadvantages of about a dozen -eligible men. Only three stood the test, and it finally -narrowed down to Crossley. Margot was so happy -when I told her. She wanted to love him—and now she -is loving him.”</p> - -<p>A long pause while Edna calmed down to earth from -her European soarings, and while I, too, returned to the -normal from an excursion in the opposite direction. -“How much does he want?” said I. “Let’s get to bed -rock.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>“He loves her so that he is willing, so I hear— Of -course, nothing has been said— You will not believe -how refined and——”</p> - -<p>“How much?” interrupted I.</p> - -<p>Edna winced at my rudeness, then again presented an -unruffled front of happy loving serenity. “Enough to -pay off the mortgages and to provide them with a suitable -income.”</p> - -<p>“How much?” I persisted, laughing.</p> - -<p>She looked tenderly remonstrant. “I don’t know, -Godfrey——”</p> - -<p>“You know <i>about</i> how much. What’s the figure—the -price of this marked down marquis?”</p> - -<p>“I should say the whole thing would not cost more -than three or four million dollars.”</p> - -<p>“Three—or four.” I laughed aloud. “Not much -difference there. Now which is it—three or four?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps nearer four. Margot must have a <i>good</i> -income.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said I.</p> - -<p>“The whole object would be defeated if she hadn’t -the means——”</p> - -<p>“The money,” I suggested. “Why use these -evasive words? We’re talking a plain subject. Let’s -use its language.”</p> - -<p>“The money, then,” acquiesced she, resolutely good-humored. -“If she hadn’t the money to make a proper -appearance.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally, to lead in society you must lead in -spending money.... Well—it can’t be done.”</p> - -<p>She paled, half started from her chair, sank back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span> -again. There was a long silence. Then she said, -“You have never been cruel, Godfrey. You won’t be -cruel now. You won’t destroy my life work. You -won’t shatter Margot’s happiness.”</p> - -<p>“The whole thing is—is nauseating to me,” said I.</p> - -<p>Her short, pretty upper lip quivered. Her eyes -filled. “If you didn’t approve, dear, why didn’t you -stop me long ago? Why did you let me go on until -there was no turning back?”</p> - -<p>I was silent. There seemed to be no answer to that.</p> - -<p>“Did you do it purposely, Godfrey?” said she, with -melancholy eyes upon me. “Did you lure us on, so -that you could crush us at one stroke?”</p> - -<p>I was silent.</p> - -<p>“I can’t believe that of you. I won’t believe it until -you compel me to.”</p> - -<p>“As I understand it,” said I, “you propose that I -hand over to this young man four million——”</p> - -<p>“Only about half of it, Godfrey,” cried she, reviving. -“The other half would be Margot’s—for her own -income.”</p> - -<p>“Then that I hand over to this amiable, insignificant -young foreigner two million dollars to induce him to -consent to the degradation of marrying my daughter—to -have him going about, saying in effect, ‘It is true, -she is only one of those low Americans, but don’t forget -that I got two million dollars for stooping.’ Is that -the proposition?”</p> - -<p>“You know it isn’t!” cried she. “He doesn’t feel -that he is degrading himself. He feels proud of winning -her—the most beautiful, the best mannered girl in London.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span> -But it’d be simply impossible for them to marry -without the money. <i>I</i> shouldn’t want it. They would -be wretched. You talk like a sentimental schoolboy, -Godfrey. How could two refined, sensitive people such -as Hugh and Margot, used to every luxury, used to -being foremost in society—how could they be happy -without the means——”</p> - -<p>“The money,” I corrected blandly.</p> - -<p>“Without the money needed to maintain their position -as marquis and marchioness of Crossley?”</p> - -<p>I nodded assent.</p> - -<p>“He has only about five thousand—twenty-five -thousand of our money—a year. That is ridiculous for -a marquis. He has to keep all his houses closed and -run as economically as possible. Even then they cost -him nearly seventy-five thousand dollars a year to maintain.”</p> - -<p>“And he has only twenty-five thousand!”</p> - -<p>“I meant twenty-five thousand over and above. He -has that to live on. And, poor fellow, he is dropping -every year deeper and deeper into debt. So much is -expected of a marquis.”</p> - -<p>“But not honesty, apparently,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t judge these people by our commercial -standards,” she gently rebuked.</p> - -<p>“I forgot,” said I penitently.</p> - -<p>“And the poor fellow does love Margot so!”</p> - -<p>“Um,” said I. “Have you ever happened to hear -of a Miss Townley—Jupey Townley?”</p> - -<p>A flash of annoyance flitted over Edna’s lovely, delicate -countenance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>“I see you have,” said I. “You were, indeed, thorough. -Permit me to compliment you, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad Hugh hasn’t been a saint.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t,” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s all in the past,” declared she.</p> - -<p>“I saw them in a box at a London music hall night -before last,” said I. “They were— They had been -drinking.”</p> - -<p>But Edna was not daunted. “You are a man of -the world, Godfrey. Don’t pretend to be narrow.”</p> - -<p>“When a man loves a woman——”</p> - -<p>“Love is very different from that sort of thing, and -you know it.”</p> - -<p>“Has Margot heard——”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey!” cried Edna, in horror. “Do you -think I would permit <i>my</i> daughter—<i>our</i> daughter—to -know such things! Why, her mind is as pure——”</p> - -<p>I could not restrain a gesture of disgust. “You -women!” I cried, rising. “Pure! Pure—God in -Heaven, pure!”</p> - -<p>Her look of dazed astonishment, obviously sincere, -helped me to get back my composure. I sat down again. -“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”</p> - -<p>“Even if you men have no purity yourselves, you -ought to believe in it in women,” said she, with an injured -air.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” I agreed heartily. “I congratulate -you on being able to make such generous allowances for -masculine frailty.”</p> - -<p>“You are sarcastic,” said she coldly.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span>“No matter. It certainly does not damage the -title—perhaps adds to its luster.”</p> - -<p>“It’s hereditary in their family to be wild up to marriage, -and then to settle down and serve the state in -some distinguished position.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—in that case—” said I ironically.</p> - -<p>“Margot and her husband and her children will have -your money some day,” pursued she. “Why not give -it to her now, when it will get her happiness?”</p> - -<p>That impressed me. “I have not said I would not -consent to this marriage,” I reminded her. “As a matter -of fact, I’m in favor of it. I can see no future for -Margot in America——”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” cried Edna eagerly. “She simply -couldn’t marry over there. She’d be wretched.”</p> - -<p>“But I feel it is my duty— Rather late in the day -for me to talk about duty toward my daughter, after -neglecting it all these years. Still, I ought to see to it -that she has the best possible chance for a smooth married -life. It’s only common prudence to take all precautions—isn’t -it?”</p> - -<p>“All <i>sensible</i> precautions,” said she.</p> - -<p>“You know how many of these foreign ‘alliances,’ -as they’re called, have turned out badly.”</p> - -<p>“They get a good many divorces in the states,” she -suggested smilingly. “One to every twelve marriages, -I read the other day.”</p> - -<p>I admitted that she had made an effective retort. -“The truth is,” said I, “American women aren’t -brought up for domestic life. So, whether they marry -at home or abroad they have trouble.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>“Men resent their independence,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“It may be so,” said I. Of what use to point out -to her that the trouble lay in the women’s demanding to -be supported and refusing to do anything to earn their -support? All I said was: “I suspect a good many husbands -think the marriage contract too one-sided—binding -only them and not their wives. But the trouble with the -‘alliances’ can’t be that.”</p> - -<p>“It’s because Europeans look on the wife as a kind -of head servant. But Hugh isn’t that sort.”</p> - -<p>“We’ll know more as to that when we hear what -Margot says after she’s been married a few years,” said -I. “The point to settle now is how to bind him to good -behavior so far as it can be done in advance. He may -be deeply in love with Margot. He may stay in love -with her. But in the circumstances it’s wise to assume -that he wants only her money and that, if he gets it, -he’ll treat her badly.”</p> - -<p>My wife’s silence was encouraging.</p> - -<p>“If he had plenty of money he might even goad her -into releasing him—and might marry again.”</p> - -<p>My wife was obviously impressed. “Yes—that has -been done,” said she. “Of course, if Margot should -have an heir right away. But——”</p> - -<p>She looked at me as if trying to decide whether she -could trust me with a confidence. She evidently decided -in my favor, for she went on to say:</p> - -<p>“On the other hand—Margot is a peculiar girl. -No—many women have the same peculiarity. They -can’t be trusted with power over their husbands. If -she had all the money in her own name and he were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span> -dependent on her— Godfrey, I’m sure there’d be -trouble.”</p> - -<p>Once more she was astonishing me with her clear -judgment in matters as to which I should have thought -her hopelessly prejudiced. “But <i>I</i> can be trusted,” said -I. “The plan I had in mind was to take over the mortgages -and guarantee a sufficient income.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “He won’t consent,” said she. -“His solicitors will insist on better terms than that.”</p> - -<p>“Now you see why I want to talk to him directly. -I don’t purpose to be hampered by that old trick of the -principal hidden behind a go-between.”</p> - -<p>“There’s no other way,” said Edna. “They’re too -clever to yield that.”</p> - -<p>“He needs money badly.”</p> - -<p>“But he won’t marry unless he’s actually to get it,” -replied she. “Almost every American who has married -a daughter over here has tried to make a business bargain—at -least, a bargain not altogether one-sided. Not -one of them has succeeded. These Europeans have been -handling the dowry and settlement question too many -centuries.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said I affably. “If we want what they’ve -got, we have to take it on their terms.”</p> - -<p>It was most satisfactory, talking with her now that -she consented to speak and listen to good sense. I was -at once in a more amiable frame of mind, although I -knew she had descended from her high horse only because -she was shrewd enough to see it was the one way -to get me to do as she wished.</p> - -<p>“I will hide behind a go-between myself,” said I.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>“Any English lawyer would simply play into the -hands of the other side. At least, so Hilda was telling -me.”</p> - -<p>“Is she happy?”</p> - -<p>“Very.”</p> - -<p>“When’s her husband coming back?”</p> - -<p>“Not for a year or so, I believe. Lord Blankenship -cares more for big game and for exploring than for -anything else.”</p> - -<p>“An ideal marriage,” said I. “She brought him -the money he wanted. He brought her the title she -wanted. And they don’t annoy each other. He devotes -himself to sport, she to society. These aristocratic people, -with their simple, vulgar wants that are so easily -gratified—how they are to be envied!”</p> - -<p>Edna was observing me furtively, uneasily. I pretended -not to notice. I went on: “Now, if they wanted -the difficult things—things like love and companionship -and congeniality—they might be wretched. When a -child cries for a stick of candy or a tinsel-covered rattle—for -money or social position—why, it’s easily pacified. -But if it cries for the moon and the stars—” -I laughed softly, enjoying her wonder as much as my -own fancies.</p> - -<p>After a while she said, with some constraint: “You -see a great deal of Armitage?”</p> - -<p>“We console each other,” said I, with mild raillery.</p> - -<p>“Have you been going out much?”</p> - -<p>“I’m very busy.”</p> - -<p>“In one of your letters— Those rare little notes of -yours! You are cruelly neglectful, Godfrey— In one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span> -of them you spoke of a week end or so on Armitage’s -yacht. You and he don’t go off alone?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. Some literary and artistic people usually -are aboard.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know you cared for that sort.”</p> - -<p>“They’re interesting enough.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose they’re friends of Mrs. Kirkwood’s,” -pursued Edna. “She’s like her brother—affects to -despise fashionable society. Their pretenses always -amused me.”</p> - -<p>“They are sincere people,” said I. “They don’t -pretend. That’s why I like them.”</p> - -<p>“I notice that Armitage belongs to every fashionable -club in New York—and to some over here,” said -Edna with a smile that was as shrewd as her observation. -“Also, that he manages to find time to appear at the -most exclusive parties during the season.”</p> - -<p>I had observed this same peculiarity. While I refused -to draw from it the inference she drew—and was -undeniably justified in drawing—I had been tempted to -do so. It irritated me to see her finger upon the weak -spot in Armitage’s profession of freedom from snobbishness.</p> - -<p>“And Mary Kirkwood,” pursued Edna, “she’s the -same sort of fakir. Only, being a woman, she does it -more deceptively than he.”</p> - -<p>“She goes nowhere,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But she revels in the fact that she <i>could</i> go anywhere. -So, she fooled you—did she?” Edna laughed -merrily at my ill-concealed discomfiture. “But then you -know so little about women.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>“I confess I’ve never seen in her the least sign of -snobbishness or of interest in fashionable foolishness,” -said I, with what I flatter myself was a fair attempt at -the impartial air.</p> - -<p>“That in itself ought to have opened your eyes,” -said Edna. “Whenever you see anyone, dear, with no -sign of a weakness that everybody in the world has, you -may be sure you are seeing a fraud.”</p> - -<p>“Because <i>you</i> have a weakness, dear,” said I—as -pleasant and as acid as she, “you must not imagine it -is universal.”</p> - -<p>“But <i>you</i> have that weakness, too.”</p> - -<p>“Really?”</p> - -<p>“Did you or did you not join the fashionable clubs -Armitage put you up at?”</p> - -<p>I had to laugh at myself.</p> - -<p>“Are you or are you not proud of the fact that your -best friend, Armitage, is a fashionable person? Would -you be as proud of him if he were only welcome in middle-class -houses?”</p> - -<p>“I’m ashamed to say there’s something in that,” said -I. “Not much, but something.”</p> - -<p>“Yet you believed Mary Kirkwood!” ended Edna.</p> - -<p>“I thought little about it,” said I. “And I still -believe that she is sincere—that she has no snobbishness -in her.”</p> - -<p>“You like her?”</p> - -<p>“So far as I know her—yes.” My answer was an -attempt to meet and parry a suspicion I felt in Edna’s -mind. And it was fairly successful; fairly—for no one -ever yet completely dislodged a suspicion. We cannot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[263]</span> -see into each other’s minds. We know, from what is -going on in our own minds, that the human mind is capable -of any vagary. Once we have applied this general -principle to a specific person, once we have become definitely -aware that there are in that person’s mind things -of which we have no knowledge—from that time forth -suspicion of them is in us, and is ready to grow, to -flourish.</p> - -<p>I had no difficulty in shifting to the subject of the -marriage. “I’ll cable for my lawyer,” said I. “If -anyone can beat this game, Fred Norman can.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—send for him,” said Edna. “He is canny—and -a man of <i>our</i> world.”</p> - -<p>“I’m going back to London to-night—” I -went on.</p> - -<p>“To-night!” she exclaimed. Her eyes filled with -tears. “Godfrey—is this treating us right?”</p> - -<p>I looked at her intently. “Don’t fake with me,” -said I quietly. “It isn’t necessary.”</p> - -<p>“What <i>do</i> you mean?” cried she.</p> - -<p>“I mean, I understand perfectly that you care nothing -about me, except as the source of the money you -need in amusing yourself. As you see in my manner, -I am not wildly agitated by that fact. So far as I’m -concerned, there’s no reason why we should make each -other uncomfortable.”</p> - -<p>“What <i>is</i> the matter with you, Godfrey?” she said, -with large widening eyes gazing at me. “You have -changed entirely.”</p> - -<p>“As you have,” said I, admiring her shrewdness, -and afraid of it. “You’ve been educating. So have I.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span> -Mine has been slower than yours and along different -lines. But it, too, has been thorough.”</p> - -<p>She was not satisfied, though I’m confident my tone -and manner betrayed nothing. Said she: “Some bad -woman has been poisoning you against Margot and -me.”</p> - -<p>“As you please,” said I, too wary to be drawn into -that discussion. I realized I had said entirely too much. -Relying upon her intense vanity, her profound belief -in her power over me, I had gone too far. “My business -takes me to London to-night. I’ll probably be -there until Norman arrives. Then we’ll come over.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want us in London with you?” said -Edna.</p> - -<p>“You are comfortably settled here,” replied I. -“Why disturb yourselves?”</p> - -<p>She knew how to read me. She saw I was not in -a dangerous mood, as she had begun to fear. She said: -“We <i>did</i> intend to stay in Paris a month or six weeks. -We have a charming circle of friends among the old -families here. I wish you’d stop on, Godfrey. The -people are attractive, and the social life is most interesting.”</p> - -<p>“Not to me,” said I. “You forget I’m a Hooligan. -Besides, you don’t need me. There’s your advantage -through being young and lovely and rich. You can -get plenty of men to escort you about. It’s only the -old and ugly married women who really need their -husbands. Well—I’ll be ready when you are forced to -fall back on me. Nothing like having in reserve a faithful -Dobbin.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span>She looked hurt. “How <i>can</i> you joke about sacred -things,” she reproached.</p> - -<p>I laughed her seriousness aside. “Yes, I’ll be waiting, -ready to be your companion, the confidant of your -rheumatism and gout, when all the others have fled. -Meanwhile, my dear, I’ll have my frisk.”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey!”</p> - -<p>It amused me to see how bitter to her was the taste -of the medicine she had been forcing upon me so self-complacently. -It amused me to watch the confusion -into which these new and unsuspected aspects of myself -was throwing her.</p> - -<p>Said I: “I’m glad you’re as generous toward me as -I’ve been toward you. That’s why we’ve avoided the -Armitage sort of smash-up.”</p> - -<p>When I left Paris that night I’ll engage she was -thinking about me as she had never thought in her -whole self-centered, American-female life.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">VIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">My</span> cable to Norman was answered the next day but -one by a note from him, stopping in the same hotel. -I shall not detail the negotiations that followed—the -long and stormy scenes between him and Dawkins, solicitor -to the Marquis of Crossley. It is sufficient to -say that Norman had the novel sensation of being -beaten on every point. Not outwitted, for he had wit -enough and to spare for any contest of cunning; but -beaten by the centuries-old precedents and customs and -requirements in matters of dower and settlement. The -mercenary marriage is an ancient habit of the human -race; in fact, the scientists have proved that it began -with marriage itself, that there was no marriage in the -civilized sense until there was property to marry for. -Perhaps the mercenary marriage is not so recent in -America as our idyllists declare. Do we not read that -the father of his country married solely for money an -almost feeble-minded woman whom everybody knew he -did not love? And, inasmuch as marriage is first of all -a business—the business of providing for the material -needs and wants of two and their children—may it not -barely be possible that the unqualifiedly sentimental view -of marriage can be—perhaps has been—overdone? In -America, where the marriage for sentiment prevails to -an extent unknown anywhere else in the world—is not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span> -the institution of marriage there in its most uneasy -state? And may not that be the reason?</p> - -<p>What a world of twaddle it is! If men and women -could only learn to build their ideals on the firm foundation—the -only firm foundation—of the practical instead -of upon the quicksand of lies and pretenses, -wouldn’t the tower climb less shakily, if more slowly, -toward the stars?</p> - -<p>You may be sure there was nothing of the stars in -those talks between Norman and Dawkins—or in my -talks with Norman—or in Crossley’s talks with Dawkins. -Crossley had had me looked up—had discovered -as much about my finances as it is possible to discover -about the private business of an American. He had -got the usual exaggerated estimate of my wealth, and -he was resolved that he would not be cheated of a single -dollar he might wring from me. From my standpoint -it was obvious that he and Margot must have plenty of -money or they could not be happy. All I desired was -to prevent him from feeling financially free—and therefore -under the aristocratic code, morally free—to show -and to act, after marriage, the contempt I knew he -felt for all things and persons American—except the -dollars, which could be exchanged into sovereigns. I -fought hard, but he stood fast. Either Margot must -lose him or I must give him about what he asked—a -fortune in his own right for him. If I choose I could -dower her; but as to dowering him he would not permit -the question of alternative to be raised.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said I at last to Norman. “Give them -their minimum.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span>He was astounded, was furious—and as he is not -the ordinary lick-spittle lawyer but a man of arrogant -independence, he did not hesitate to let me see that his -anger—and scorn—were for myself. “Do you mean -that?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied I carelessly—as if I were now indifferent -about the whole business. “My girl wants his -title. And why let a question of money come between -her and happiness?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t refrain from saying, Loring, that I’d not -have believed this of you.”</p> - -<p>“She’s not fit to live in America,” said I. “Her -mother hasn’t educated her for it. American mothers -don’t educate their daughters nowadays to be wives of -American men. Honestly, do you know an American -man able to do for himself who would be foolish enough -to marry that sort of girl?”</p> - -<p>His silence was assent.</p> - -<p>“You see. I’ve got to buy her a husband—that is, -a title—over here. This offering seems as good as there -is in the market—at the price. So—why not?”</p> - -<p>“That’s one view of it,” said he coldly.</p> - -<p>I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Come now—be -sensible,” said I. “What else can I do?”</p> - -<p>“It would be an impertinence for me to say,” replied -he.</p> - -<p>“I can guess,” said I. “You needn’t trouble -yourself to say it. You evidently don’t know the circumstances. -And I may add that so long as I’ve got -to buy Margot a title I might as well buy her a good -one.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>He eyed me sharply. But I did not take him into -my confidence—nor shall I confide in you at present, -gentle reader. I did not even let him see that I was -holding back anything. I went on with good-humored -raillery:</p> - -<p>“I’m doing better than Hanley or Vanderveld or -Pattison or any of the others who’ve dealt in these -markets. For a marquis Crossley is selling cheap. -He’s far from penniless, you know. It’s simply that -he wants more money. Why, really, old man, it’s what’s -called a love match. They always call it a love match -when the nobleman isn’t absolutely on his uppers.”</p> - -<p>“You are certainly a philosopher, Loring,” said -Norman, anxious, I saw, to finish and drop the affair.</p> - -<p>“And I became one in the usual way—necessity,” -said I. “I’m as eager to have this thing dispatched -as you are. I want to get out to sea, where perhaps -the stench of aristocracy will blow out of my nostrils, -and stay out of them till I reach the other shore. Then -I’ll get it again. It blows down the bay to meet the -incoming ships.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we’re pretty bad,” admitted Norman. “Not -so bad as we used to be, but pretty bad.” He laughed. -“They accuse us of loving money. Why, we are mere -beginners at it. We haven’t learned how to idle or how -to spend money except in crude, tiresome ways. And to -love money deeply you must know how to idle and how -to spend. Money’s <i>the</i> passion with these people. -How they do need it!”</p> - -<p>Neither shall I linger over the details of the engagement -and the wedding. For all that was important<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span> -about either I refer you to the newspapers of London -and New York. They gave everything that makes a -snob’s eyes glisten and a snob’s mouth water. My wife -has somewhere—she knows exactly where—a scrapbook, -and my daughter has another of the same kind. Those -scrapbooks are strongly bound and the pages are of -the heaviest time- and wear-resisting paper. In them -are pasted columns on columns of lists of titles, of -descriptions of jewels and dresses, of enumerations of -wedding gifts. Margot received things costing small -fortunes from people she barely knew well enough to -invite. They gave in the hope—the good hope—of -gaining the valuable favor of the Marchioness of Crossley, -a great lady by reason of her title, a greater lady -by reason of the ancientness of the Massingford family, -and at the top and summit of greatness by reason of -her wealth.</p> - -<p>That last item, by the way, was vastly overestimated. -Everyone assumed that Crossley had sold much more -dearly. No one but those intimately concerned dreamed -what a bargain I had got.</p> - -<p>You may be picturing a sordid affair, redolent of -the stenches of commercialism. If you are, gentle -reader, you are showing yourself unworthy of your own -soulfulness, unworthy of the elegant society into which -I have introduced you. I have been giving simply the -plain facts—a mere skeleton upon which you, versed -in society columns and society novels, and skilled in the -art of hiding ugly truths under pretty lies, may readily -drape the flesh and the garments of sentimentality and -snobbishness. You will then have the truth as it appeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[271]</span> -to the world—a handsome, manly groom, every -inch of him the patrician; a wondrous lovely, innocent, -pure young bride, looking the worthy mate of the great -noble she had won with her beauty and her sweetness; -a background of magnificent houses and equipages, of -grand society people, of lackeys in livery without number; -an atmosphere of luxury, refinement, perfumed -with the fairest flowers and the most delicate artificial -scents. You are seeing also the high and noble motives -of all concerned—the joy of parents in a daughter -sentimentally wooed and won to happiness; the generous -and kindly feelings of all the friends; the lavish and -affectionate overflowing of costly gifts; above all, the -ecstatic young couple wrapped up in their love for -each other. Flesh up and beautify the skeleton to your -taste, gentle reader. You will not go amiss.</p> - -<p>I must linger a moment on the happiness of my -daughter. It was too spiritual to be of this earth. As -soon as the miserable, unimportant money matters were -settled, and her mother gave her full leave to love, she -threw herself into it with all the ardor of the heroine -of a novel. She had two diamond hearts made—at the -most fashionable jewelers in Paris, you may be sure. -Upon the inside of the one she kept she had engraved, -under his picture, “From Hugh to Margot.” In the -one she gave him there surrounded her picture in diamond -inlay, “To Hugh from his dear love Margot.”</p> - -<p>Each was to wear the heart round the neck until -death. Again and again I caught her dreaming over -hers, sometimes with tears in her limpid eyes. Again -and again I caught her scribbling, “Margot, Marchioness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span> -of Crossley, Viscountess Brear, Countess of Felday -and Noth, Baroness de Selve,” and so on through a -list of titles which gentle reader will find in “Burke’s” -and the “Almanach de Gotha.”</p> - -<p>And she had a reverent way of looking at him and -a tender way of touching him. Her mother, you will -believe, spared neither expense nor pains in getting -together the trousseau. But Margot was not satisfied. -“Not nearly fine enough for <i>his</i> bride,” she would say. -“I’m <i>so</i> afraid he’ll be disappointed.” Then the tears -would spring. “Oh, mamma! If he should be disappointed -in me!”</p> - -<p>“Not so bad as if you were to be disappointed in -him,” I put in with no other motive than to cheer her up.</p> - -<p>But it only shocked her. “In Hugh!” she exclaimed, -meaning in Cecil Robert Grunleigh Percival -Hugh Massingford, Marquis of Crossley, etc. “<i>I</i> disappointed -in <i>him</i>! Oh, papa! You don’t <i>realize</i>!”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose not,” said I, getting myself away as -speedily as my legs would carry me.</p> - -<p>Through these joyous scenes of youth and love and -luxury I moved gloomily—restless, bitter, tormented by -self-reproaches and by thoughts of the woman I loved. -What Edna had said about her, though I knew it was -by way of precautionary cattishness, put into my mind -the inevitable suspicion—no, not actual suspicion, but -germ of suspicion—the almost harmless germ from -which the most poisonous suspicions may develop. I -went round and round my mental image of Mary Kirkwood. -I viewed it from all angles. But I could not -find a trace of the flaw Edna had asserted. I analyzed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span> -her with all the analytical skill I possessed, and that, I -flatter myself, is not a little. No one who has not the -faculty of analysis ever gets anywhere; no one who has -that faculty ever escapes the charge of cynicism. Shallow -people—the sort that make such a charge—will -regard it as proof of my utter cynicism, my absolute -lack of sentiment, that I was able to analyze the woman -I loved, or pretended I loved. But I assure you, gentle -reader, that not even love and passion suspend the habitual -processes of a good mind. The reason you have -read the contrary so often is because precious few -writers about men of the superior sort have the capacity -to comprehend the intellects they try to picture. To -the man of large affairs, the average—and many a one -above the average—biography or novel about a great -man reads like the attempt of a straddle bug to give his -fellow straddle bugs an account of an elephant.</p> - -<p>I was the only inharmonious figure in that round of -festivals. But no one observed me. I simply got the -reputation of being a man of reserve, a thinker rather -than a talker—as if there ever lived a thinker who did -not overflow with torrents of talk like a spring fed from -a glacier; but, of course, the spring flows only when -The conditions are favorable, not when it is ice-bound. -I was not even interested in observing. There is a -monotony about the actions of fashionable people that -soon reduces a spectator of agile mind to stupor. The -same thing over and over again, with variations so -slight that only a nit-wit would be interested in them— Could -there be a worse indictment of the intelligence of -the human race than that so large a part of its presumably<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span> -most intelligent classes engage in the social -farce, which is an example of aimless activity about on -a level with a dog’s chasing its own tail?</p> - -<p>But Edna——</p> - -<p>As I look back on those weeks of days, each one -crowded like a ragbag with rubbish, the figure of Edna -stands out radiant. You would never have thought her -the mother of the bride—or, indeed, a mother at all. -A woman who for many years leads a virginal or almost -virginal life gets back the vestal air of the unmarried -girl. This air had returned to Edna. She had it as -markedly as had Margot. It was most becoming to -her piquant style of beauty, giving it the allure of the -height that invites ascent and capture, yet has never -been desecrated. And how she did enjoy the grandeur—the -great names, the gorgeous presents of curiously -and costlily wrought gold and silver and crystal, -and precious stones, the succession of panoramas of -ultra-fashionable life, with herself and Margot always -the center.</p> - -<p>I used to stand aside and watch her and feel as if -I were hypnotized into vivid hallucinations. I recalled -the incidents of our early life—Brooklyn, the Passaic -flat, the squat and squalid homes of our childhood. I -recalled our people—hers and mine—tucked away in -homely obscurity among the New Jersey hills. But by -no effort of mind could I associate her with these realities. -She had literally been born again. I looked at -the other Americans of humble beginnings—and there -were not a few of them in that society. All had retained -some traces of their origin, had some characteristics<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span> -that made it not difficult to connect their present -with their past. But not Edna.</p> - -<p>At the wedding—in the most fashionable church in -the West End—Margot looked weary and rather old, -gone slightly stale from too long and hard preliminary -training. Edna was at her best—delicate, fragile, radiant. -How the other women hated her for that time-defying -beauty of hers! Many of the women of her still -youthful age retained much of the physical attractiveness -of youth. But there was not another one who was -not beginning to show the effects of dissipation—of too -much food and wine and cigarettes, of lives devoid of -elevating sensations, of minds used only for petty, mean -thoughts. But Edna seemed in the flower of that period -when the secrets of the soul have as yet made no marks -upon the countenance. You would have said she was a -merry and romantic girl. I could not fathom that -mystery. I cannot fathom it now. Its clew must be -in her truly amazing powers of self-deception and also -in that unique capacity of hers for forgetting the thing, -no matter what, that is disagreeable to remember.</p> - -<p>When we were at last alone, with the young couple -off for the yacht Lord Shangway had loaned them for -the honeymoon, with the last guest gone and the last -powdered flunkey vanished—when she and I were alone, -she settled herself with a sigh and said:</p> - -<p>“I wish I could make it begin all over again!”</p> - -<p>“You must be built of steel,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I am supremely happy,” said she, “and have been -for weeks. Nothing agrees with me so thoroughly as -happiness.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>I looked at her scrutinizingly. No, she was not the -least tired; she was as fresh as if that moment risen from -a long sleep in the air of seashore or mountains.</p> - -<p>She went on: “I’m going over to Paris to-morrow. -I’ve a lot of engagements there. And I must get some -clothes. I’ve worn out all I brought with me.”</p> - -<p>“Worn out” meant worn once or at most twice; -for in a society where everyone is seeing everyone else -all the time a woman with a reputation for dress cannot -afford to reappear in clothes once seen. In some circles -this would sound delightfully prodigal, in others delightfully -impossible, and perhaps in still others delightfully -criminal. But then all that sort of thing is relative—like -everything else in the world.</p> - -<p>“Won’t you come along?” said she in a perfunctory -tone.</p> - -<p>“No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m off for Russia with -a party of bankers to look at some mining properties.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you were returning to New York?”</p> - -<p>“Not for several months,” said I.</p> - -<p>“How can you stay away so long from your beloved -America?”</p> - -<p>“Business—always business.”</p> - -<p>She eyed me somewhat as one eyes a strange, mildly -interesting specimen. “Well—you must enjoy it, or -you wouldn’t keep at it year in and year out.”</p> - -<p>“One has to pass the time,” said I.</p> - -<p>“How does Mary Kirkwood pass the time?”</p> - -<p>This unexpected and—except sub-consciously—accidental -question, staggered me for an instant. “I -don’t know much about it,” said I. “She has a house—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span> -she looks after it, herself. She reads, I believe. -She has gardens—and they use up a lot of time. Then -she rides.”</p> - -<p>Edna yawned. “It sounds dull,” she said. “But -domestic people are always dull. And she is certainly -domestic. I wonder why she doesn’t marry again.”</p> - -<p>I was silent.</p> - -<p>“Are any men attentive to her? It seems to me I -heard something about a novelist—some poor man who -is after her money.”</p> - -<p>I was choking with rage and jealousy.</p> - -<p>“Did you see any such man about?”</p> - -<p>I contrived to compose myself for a calm reply. -“No one answering to your description,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Do you like her?”</p> - -<p>“You asked me that once before,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh—I forgot. It seems to me you and she would -have exactly suited each other. You like domestic -women. That is, you think you do. Really, you’d -probably fly from a woman of that sort.”</p> - -<p>“And a woman of the other sort would fly from -me,” said I, laughing.</p> - -<p>She looked at me thoughtfully. “You must admit -you’re not easy to get on with—except at a distance,” -observed she. “But men of positive individuality are -never easy to get on with. A big tree blights all the -little trees and bushes that try to grow in its neighborhood.... -No, Godfrey dear, you weren’t made for -domestic life—you and I. Domestic life is successful -only where there are two very small and very much -alike. People like us have to live alone.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>I rose abruptly. There was for me a sound in that -“alone” like the slam of a graveyard gate.</p> - -<p>“You never will appreciate me—how satisfactory -I’ve been,” she went on, “until you marry again.”</p> - -<p>“I must make my final arrangements for Russia,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“Shall I see you in the morning? I’m leaving -rather early.”</p> - -<p>“Probably not,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Then we’ll meet when you come back. We’ll visit -Margot at Sothewell Abbey.” She rose, drew herself -to her full height with a graceful gesture of triumph. -“Don’t you honestly rather like it, being the father of -a Marchioness?”</p> - -<p>I could not speak. I looked at her.</p> - -<p>“How solemn you are!” laughed she. “Well, -good-by, dear.” And she held out her hand and turned -her face upward for me to kiss her lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll probably see you in the morning,” I said, -“or to-night.” And away I went.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>From Russia I drifted to India, intending to return -home by the Pacific. At Bombay I met Lord Blankenship, -and he persuaded me to cross to East Africa. I -found him a companion exactly to my taste. He was -a silent chap having nothing to think about and nothing -to think with—a typical and model product of the -aristocratic education that completes a man as a sculptor -completes an image, and prepares him to stand in -his appointed niche until decay tumbles him down as -rubbish. I had lost all my former passion for talking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[279]</span> -and listening. I wished to confine myself—my thoughts—to -the trivial matters of the senses, to lingering over -and tinkering with the physical details of life. The -silent and vacant Blankenship set me a perfect example, -one easy to fall into the habit of following.</p> - -<p>At Paris, I picked up my private secretary, Markham, -and resumed attention to my affairs. I had arranged -for things to go on without me, when I set out -for East Africa. I found that my guess as to how they -would go had been correct. For a month or so there -was confusion—the confusion that is inevitable when a -man who has attended to everything abruptly throws -up his leadership. Then the affairs in which he fancied -himself indispensable begin to move as well as if -he were at the throttle—perhaps better. The most -substantial result of my neglect seemed to be that I -had become much richer, had more than recovered what -my purchase of a son-in-law had cost me.</p> - -<p>Markham, who had been at Cairo two months, had -got himself engaged to be married. For several years -I had been promising him a good position, that is to -say, one more fitting a grown man of real capacity. -But he made himself so useful that I put off redeeming -my promise and eased my conscience and quieted his -ambition with a succession of increases of salary. -Now, however, I could no longer delay releasing him. -So I must go back to New York, to find some one to take -his place. Blankenship was wavering between a trip -through West Africa and going to America with me, -on the chance of my accompanying him on a shooting -trip through British Columbia. He decided to stick<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span> -to me, and as I had grown thoroughly used to having -him about I was rather glad. It is astonishing how -much comfort one can get out of the society of a silent -man, when one feels that he is a good fellow and a devoted -friend.</p> - -<p>I telegraphed Edna that I would be unable to come -to London, where she then was. But she defeated my -plan for not seeing her. When I reached Paris there -she was waiting for me at the Ritz. She had a swarm -of French, Italians, and English about her—I believe -there were some Germans or Austrians, also. I refused -to be annoyed with them, and we dined quietly with -Blankenship, Markham, and a pretty little Countess de -Salevac to act us buffers between us. I tried to avoid -being left alone with her, but she would not have it so. -She insisted on my coming to her sitting room after -the others had gone.</p> - -<p>“I know you are tired,” said she, “but I shan’t detain -you long.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t,” said I. “The journey has knocked -me out. I’ve not slept for two nights.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a shame to worry you——”</p> - -<p>I made for the door. “Not to-night—no worries. -They’ll keep until to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“No, Godfrey dear,” she said. “I must tell you -at once. There is serious trouble between Margot and -Hugh.”</p> - -<p>“Why, they haven’t been married a year.”</p> - -<p>“He has been treating her shamefully from the -outset. In fact, he cut short the honeymoon to hurry -back to that music-hall person.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>“The one I saw him with?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—the same one—that notorious Jupey -What’s-her-name. Isn’t it dreadful! Margot’s pride -is up in arms. Nothing I say will quiet her.”</p> - -<p>“Um,” said I.</p> - -<p>“She refuses to understand that over here husbands -are allowed a—a——”</p> - -<p>“Latitude,” I suggested.</p> - -<p>“More latitude than in America. I have talked -with Hugh, too. He is—very difficult. Really, he isn’t -at all as he seemed. He is a—he is horribly coarse.”</p> - -<p>“People who think of nothing but how to get money -without work and how to spend it without usefulness -are apt to be coarse, when you probe through to the -reality of them.”</p> - -<p>“He is—defiant,” pursued she, too femininely practical -to have interest in or patience with philosophy. -“He— Godfrey, he says he hates her. He won’t -speak to her. And there’s no prospect of an heir. He -says he wants to get rid of her.”</p> - -<p>These successive admissions of a worse and worse -mess were forced from her by my air of indifference. -“What has <i>she</i> done?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Done? I don’t understand——”</p> - -<p>“What has she done to drive him to extremes?”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey!” she cried in a shocked tone. “<i>You</i>—taking -sides against your daughter—your only -child! Have you no paternal feeling, either?”</p> - -<p>“Not much,” said I. “You see, I’ve seen little of -Margot—not enough to get acquainted with her. And -you educated her so that we are uncongenial. No—since<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span> -you set me to thinking, I find I haven’t much paternal -feeling for her. I used to have in Passaic, when -I wheeled her about the streets on Sundays.”</p> - -<p>I paused to enjoy the shame my wife was struggling -with.</p> - -<p>“But soon after we moved to Brooklyn——”</p> - -<p>Edna winced and shivered.</p> - -<p>“You sent her away to begin to be a lady. And -a lady she is—and ladies are not daughters—are not -women even.”</p> - -<p>“You must help me, Godfrey,” said Edna, after a -strained silence. “Margot is wretched, and a dreadful -scandal may break out in time. Already people are -talking. Margot is ashamed to show herself in public. -She thinks everyone is laughing at her.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt she’s right,” said I. “A woman who -loses her husband on the honeymoon is likely to be laughed -at.... What did she do?”</p> - -<p>“Why do you persist in saying that?” cried she, -so irritated that she could not altogether restrain herself. -“Your dislike of women has become a mania -with you.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t dislike them,” replied I. “On the contrary, -I like them—like them so well that their worthlessness -angers me like the treachery of a friend. And -I believe so much in their power that, when things go -wrong, I blame them. They have dominion over the -men and over the children. And whenever they use their -powers it is to make fools of the men and weaklings of -the children. I don’t know which is the worse influence—the -wishy-washy, unpractical, preacher morality of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span> -good woman or the lazy, idle, irresponsible dissipation of -the—the ladies and near-ladies and lady-climbers and -lady-imitators.”</p> - -<p>“But this has nothing to do with poor Margot!” -exclaimed she impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Everything to do with her,” replied I. “Still—it’s -a spilt pail of milk. As for the present—and future— How -can I do anything to help her?”</p> - -<p>“You can’t, if you condemn her unheard.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t condemn her. I am simply recognizing that -there are two sides to this quarrel. And I assure you, -you only make matters worse when you interfere without -recognizing that fact. So I say again, what did <i>she</i> -do?”</p> - -<p>My wife calmed slightly and replied: “He says she -made him ridiculous with the airs she put on.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “After the education you gave her?”</p> - -<p>“That’s right! Blame me!”</p> - -<p>“And aren’t you to be blamed?” urged I. “Didn’t -you have full charge of her from the time she was born? -Couldn’t you have made what you pleased of her? -Didn’t you make what you pleased of her?”</p> - -<p>Edna tossed her head indignantly. “I never taught -her to be a vulgar snob.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I thought that was her whole education.”</p> - -<p>Edna ignored this interruption. “It’s all very well -for the women of noble families to act the snob,” pursued -she. “Lots of them do, and no one criticises. But -Margot ought to have had sense enough to realize that -she, a mere American, couldn’t afford to do it. I warned -her that her cue was sweetness and an air of equality.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[284]</span> -I told her that her title in itself would keep people at -their proper distance. But she lost her head.”</p> - -<p>“Then the thing for her to do is to behave herself.”</p> - -<p>“It’s too late, I’m afraid. The tide has turned -against her. All the women—especially the titled English -women of good family—were against her—hated -her—were ready to stab her in the back. And her -haughtiness and condescension gave them the chance.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you propose? To give him more -money?”</p> - -<p>Edna showed none of her familiar scorn of sordid -things. She reflected, said uncertainly: “I wonder -would that do any good?”</p> - -<p>“To win anyone give them what they most want,” -said I. “What do your friends over here want above -everything and anything?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you are right,” confessed she. Consider, -gentle reader, what this confession involved, how it exposed -the rotten insincerity of all her and her fine friends’ -pretenses. “Yes, I guess you’re right, Godfrey.” She -pressed her hands to her temples. “It simply <i>must</i> be -straightened out. I am quite distracted. I can’t afford -to lose sleep and to be harrowed up. Those things mean -ruin to a woman’s looks. And what <i>would</i> I do if she -were flung back on my hands in this disgraceful fashion!”</p> - -<p>“You want me to go to London?”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey, you <i>must</i> go. You must see her, and him, -too.”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking it would be enough to see him. But -perhaps you’re right.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span>“She is clean mad,” cried Edna, with sudden fury -against her daughter. “She doesn’t appreciate the peril -of her position. One minute she’s all for groveling. The -next she talks like an idiot about her rank and power. -Oh, she is a fool—a <i>fool</i>! I always knew she was—though -I wouldn’t admit it to myself. You never will -know what a time I’ve had training her to hide it -enough to make a pleasing appearance. She is a brainless -fool.”</p> - -<p>“A fool, but not brainless,” said I. “Her education -made her a fool and paralyzed her brain. You see, -she didn’t have the advantages you had in your early -training. In your early days you had the chance to -learn something—the useful things that have saved you -from the consequences of such folly as you’ve taught -her.”</p> - -<p>“What nonsense!” cried Edna in disgust. “But -we mustn’t quarrel. I’m agitated enough already. You -will go to London?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, after reflecting. “I’ll go.”</p> - -<p>“When?”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“And I’ll go with you.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I firmly. “Either I manage this affair -alone or I have nothing to do with it.”</p> - -<p>“But, Godfrey, there are so many things about -these people that you don’t understand. And you——”</p> - -<p>“I understand the essential thing,” said I. “And -that is their mania for money.”</p> - -<p>She was on the verge of hysteria—afraid I would -not go, afraid of what I would do if I did go. “But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span> -they have to be handled carefully,” she urged. “If you -put them in a position where their pride won’t let them -take the—the money——”</p> - -<p>“Trust me,” said I. “Go to bed, sleep soundly, -and trust me.”</p> - -<p>I stood. She suddenly flung herself against my -breast and began to sob on my shoulder. “You are -hard and cold,” she said. “You have no sympathy with -me—no feeling for anything but business. But somehow—in -spite of it all—I have such a sense of your -strength and your honesty.”</p> - -<p>I laughed rather awkwardly, patted her shoulder, -helped her to a chair. “There are times when a coarse, -common American business man of a husband has his -uses—and advantages,” I said lightly. “I’ll telegraph -you how things are going.”</p> - -<p>She dried her eyes, looked at me in a puzzled way. -“You always repulse me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I appreciate your kindness in remembering to toss -a few crumbs to the starving man,” laughed I. “They -are precious crumbs, no doubt, and more than he deserves. -But—please don’t do it. He hates that sort of -thing. You are free to act as you feel like acting. I’ll -do as much for you and Margot without the crumbs as -with them.”</p> - -<p>“How hard you are, Godfrey! How you have always -misunderstood me!”</p> - -<p>“That’s right,” said I amiably. “I’m too coarse -for such a fine nature. Well—good night.”</p> - -<p>I took myself hastily away to bed; and at ten the -next morning I departed for London.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span>I decided to see Margot first. She was at Sothewell -Abbey, about an hour by express from Paddington. You -perhaps know Sothewell Abbey through the pictures and -descriptions. And it is indeed an imposing pile of old -masonry seated in the midst of a park of surpassing -beauty. As soon as I entered the ancient gates for the -two-mile drive to the Abbey, I saw signs that my money -was in action. When I first visited it, the lodge was in -sad disrepair, the gates were about to fall to pieces and -the vista of the drive was unkempt. Now, all was -changed. The servile pair who came out to open for -me, and made me fear they would drop down on their -bellies and crawl before me, were neatly and properly -dressed, in strong contrast to their former appearance.</p> - -<p>The exterior of the house, which had been most “romantic” -but obviously the front of poverty and decay, -looked much better—not younger I hasten to assure you, -quiet reader, but somewhat like a hairless, toothless old -man when he gets a nice white wig on his pate and a -set of good false teeth on his shriveled gums. I saw -gardeners at work—and plenty there was for them to do. -Within, I saw evidences of a more adequate staff of -servants; but the great halls were dreary and bare and -dingy. That was a cold summer in England, even colder -than the summer usually is. So, the enormous house was -literally uninhabitable, like all the European palaces, -city and country, that I have been in. I can fancy what -such a place must be in winter with no way of heating it -but open fireplaces, and not many of them. I can’t conceive -any sane American, used to comfort in the way of -steam heat, spending a winter in the English country.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span> -I know it is done by Americans reputedly sane; but if -those at home knew what Europe in winter meant—the -old-fashioned “romantic” Europe—they would not believe -their expatriated countrymen sane in sacrificing -comfort and health to vanity. Yes, I believe they would; -for, do not they, at home, make the same imbecile sacrifices -to vanity in other ways?</p> - -<p>“Take me to some small warm room,” said I to Margot, -“before I catch my death of cold.” This the instant -I was within doors and felt in my very marrow -the clammy chill of that picturesque vaulted hall.</p> - -<p>“There isn’t any warm room in the house,” replied -she.</p> - -<p>“How about the kitchen?” said I.</p> - -<p>She looked alarmed—being her mother’s own daughter, -in lack of the sense of humor as in many other ways. -She said hastily: “The upstairs rooms are a little better.”</p> - -<p>“They couldn’t be worse. These rooms are cold -storage.”</p> - -<p>“I’m getting used to it,” said she. “One doesn’t -mind it so much after a while.”</p> - -<p>Her nose was red and swollen, and her voice husky. -She had a frightful cold at that very moment. “Why -don’t you get out of here and go to a decent modern -hotel in town?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Give up possession!” cried she in horror. “He -might not let me come back.”</p> - -<p>It was too ridiculous. “Possession of what?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>papa</i>!” cried she, in despair and shame at my -coarse stupidity.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span>“Possession of what?” I repeated. “Of a dirty, -dingy old cold-storage plant. Why should you want -to come back? Put on your wraps and let’s fly to town -by the next train.”</p> - -<p>She burst into tears. “I’d rather die!” she sobbed. -“I <i>won’t</i> give up my position. I am Marchioness of -Crossley and I belong here.”</p> - -<p>“All right,” said I. “Let’s try the smaller -rooms.”</p> - -<p>She led me up a vast stairway—it would have thrilled -your soul, gentle reader. Think how it sounds, put into -the fitting language— “The beautiful young Marchioness -conducted her father up the ancient and magnificent -stairway that rose from the spacious mediæval -hall and swept in a curve of wonderfully wrought stone -work, dating from the thirteenth century, to the upper -chambers of the majestic old abbey.” I hurried her as -fast as I could, for we both were sneezing and a hideous -draught like the breath of death was streaming from -somewhere. I don’t mind looking at pictures of abbeys -and the like; but when I read of the grandeur of living -in that sort of place, I laugh. The men who built them -did as well as they could in the age they lived in. But -what shall be said of men who dwell in them now, when -infinitely better is to be had?</p> - -<p>Those upper chambers! Cold, clammy, draughty—the -furniture and hangings old and dowdy. And my -daughter’s room! Like a squalid, decrepit tenement -flat. Yes, squalid; for the rugs and draperies were -dirty, were stained and frayed. There was a distinct -tenement odor.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>“Isn’t it fascinating?” said she, gazing round with -sparkling eyes.</p> - -<p>“Where’s the fire?” said I.</p> - -<p>She led me to a smelly, low-ceilinged little room, like -a segment out of a hovel. It was her boudoir, she informed -me. In one wall, in a dinky fireplace burned a -handful of fire.</p> - -<p>“Is that it?” said I. “Is that all?”</p> - -<p>“You must remember, papa,” said she proudly, -“that this isn’t a <i>modern</i> house.”</p> - -<p>“Ring for a servant,” said I. “This overcoat of -mine is too light. I must have wraps if I’m to sit here. -And you’d better get out your furs and put them on.”</p> - -<p>“The servants’d think me mad,” said she. “Must -you have a coat?”</p> - -<p>“No—that spread will do,” said I. And I jerked -it from the sofa and flung it round my shoulders. “I -don’t want to upset your establishment. Good God, I -had no idea people with any money at all anywhere on -earth lived like this. If you’re going to stay here, you -must put in steam heat.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we couldn’t do that, papa dear,” said she with -a plaintive mingling of shame for me and apology for -the tradition against sense and health.</p> - -<p>“Let’s get to business, Margot,” said I. “Sit in -the fireplace—that’s right. What’s the trouble? Your -mother has explained—has told all she knew. I’ve come -to find what the quarrel is <i>really</i> about.”</p> - -<p>“Has she told you of that woman?”</p> - -<p>“Why did he go back to her?”</p> - -<p>She began to sob. “Oh, the hideous things he said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span> -to me! I didn’t dream a gentleman could talk like that. -He called me a low American—said he was ashamed of -me—said he was going to get rid of me at any cost, -said——”</p> - -<p>“But what had you <i>done</i>!” interrupted I.</p> - -<p>“Nothing!” she cried, lifting her flushed face. -“Absolutely nothing—except worship him.”</p> - -<p>“What had you done?” I repeated. As she started -to rise I restrained her. “Stay in the fireplace. What -was the beginning of the row—the very beginning?”</p> - -<p>Her eyes wavered, but she said: “Nothing, papa!” -though less vigorously.</p> - -<p>“It was about money,” said I. “It always is—in -all ranks of society. The beginnings of the quarrels -have money at the bottom of them. Now—tell me!”</p> - -<p>She was silent.</p> - -<p>“I can’t help you unless you do.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it was so sordid!” cried she. “And I thought -him high above those things.”</p> - -<p>“No one that’s human is,” said I. “Any person -who wears pants or skirts that have to be paid for is not -above money.”</p> - -<p>“He wanted me to turn over to him all I had,” said -she. “Think of that!”</p> - -<p>“I might have known,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He said it was beneath his dignity as an English -gentleman to have a wife independent of him. And, do -you know, papa, I was so infatuated that I almost -yielded. I could see his point of view. And I’d have -been glad to come to him for every cent. Only—” She -stopped short.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[292]</span>“Only what?” I urged.</p> - -<p>“I heard about that other woman. And his way of -treating me— He said it was the proper way for a -marquis to treat his marchioness. And I liked the dignity -and the beauty of it all, when others were about. -But it seemed to me that when we were alone— Oh, -papa, I can’t tell you these things.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said I. “I understand.”</p> - -<p>“And I was—a little jealous, away down in my -heart—and suspicious. And I was afraid he wanted -the money to spend on <i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Um,” said I. “You didn’t tell your mother -this?”</p> - -<p>“She hates sordidness of every kind,” said Margot. -“And I hadn’t the courage. Besides, I’m sure mamma -would have advised me to let him have his way. She -wouldn’t sympathize with the—the weak side of my -character.”</p> - -<p>I was interested. Could it be that Edna’s daughter -had a “weak”—a human side? Could it be that her -education and her mode of life had not altogether killed -the natural and made her soul a garden of artificial -flowers only?</p> - -<p>“So, you want to be free from him?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Free from him!” cried she, aghast. “Give up my -position? Oh, papa—never—<i>never</i>!”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t love him. Don’t come away from -that fire!”</p> - -<p>She seated herself by the miserable smoky little blaze -again. “He is my husband. I am his wife. I am the -Marchioness of Crossley.” And she drew herself up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span> -with as much of an air as her cold and the contracted -space in the chimney-piece permitted. Unluckily, the -sudden gesture caused a current of air, and she sneezed -once—twice—three times.</p> - -<p>“Better get those furs,” said I. “You want the -man back?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed. I must have him back.” She -clasped her hands and wailed, “If I only had a son! -Then—<i>then</i> I’d show Hugh that he couldn’t trample on -me. But he has me in his power now. If he casts me -off I shan’t have any position at all. The women are -down on me. They hate all the American women, except -those who toady to them and give them money or -jewelry or pay their bridge and dressmaker’s bills. And -they’re only too glad of the chance to crush me. But -they’ll not succeed!”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said I dryly.</p> - -<p>She burst into tears. “Oh, I don’t know what to -do! Papa, shall I give him the money?—sign over all -my income to him and take only what he’ll allow me? -And would he come back if I did?”</p> - -<p>“He would not,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Then—what <i>shall</i> I do? Oh, what slaves we -women are! Think of it, papa! He wants to make -a <i>slave</i> of me—said he didn’t believe in women -gadding about and showing themselves off in costly -dresses and causing scandalous talk—said my place -was at home—looking after the house and that sort -of thing!” She laughed wildly. “Like a low, common -servant! And he—he free to carry on with that -woman!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>“You might teach him to stay at home, if you set -him a good example,” suggested I.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want to stay at home!” cried she. “I -didn’t marry for that. I want to enjoy all the privileges -of my rank.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I wasn’t brought up to be like a low, middle-class -woman, or a workingman’s wife.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” said I. “You are a lady. You’re -made, not to be of use in the world, but to enjoy yourself.”</p> - -<p>She seemed to find some cause for dissatisfaction in -my enthusiastic tone. “Of course,” she said, “I shall -do my duty as a member of the high nobility—lead in -society and open bazars and visit the poor on our estate -and—and all that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said I. “And the world being what -it is, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think you can bring him back, papa?”</p> - -<p>“That depends on you,” said I warily.</p> - -<p>“I’ll do anything—anything. I’ll crawl to him, if -he wants me to. After all, he <i>is</i> the Marquis of Crossley, -and I’m only an American nobody.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the proper spirit,” said I. “But you -mustn’t show it to him <i>too</i> plainly. Be moderate. A -little pretense of dignity—of self-respect.”</p> - -<p>“I understand,” said she seriously—she was indeed -Edna’s own daughter. “I’ll be as I was before we were -married.” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I can bide my time. -When I have a son!”</p> - -<p>“Get ready and come up to town to-night,” said I,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span> -with a most unfatherly gruffness and curtness, I fear. -“I’m off now to deal with him.”</p> - -<p>“Be careful not to wound his pride, papa,” she -cautioned.</p> - -<p>“I realize the danger of that,” replied I. “Come -to the Savoy. Be on hand, so I can get hold of you -whenever I need you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa <i>dear</i>!” she cried, and cast herself into -my arms.</p> - -<p>I brushed my lips upon her crown of hair—it was -false hair, that being the fashion of the day. “Try to -make yourself as pretty as you can,” said I, releasing -her and myself. “You’ll hear from me to-night or to-morrow, -unless I’ve caught my death in this damp cave. -You must leave it to the frogs, and snakes, and bats, -and build yourself a decent house somewhere. You’ll -die here.”</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid Hugh wouldn’t consent to <i>live</i> anywhere -but here. It’s the ancestral seat, you know. -The Massingfords have lived here since forever and -ever.”</p> - -<p>“Have died here, you mean. Have killed wives they -wanted to get rid of, here.”</p> - -<p>She startled—looked excitedly at me. “Papa!” -she exclaimed breathlessly. “Yes—I wouldn’t put it -past him!”</p> - -<p>I laughed.</p> - -<p>She drew a long breath of relief. “Oh, you weren’t -in earnest,” she said.</p> - -<p>“No,” replied I. “But—don’t live here.”</p> - -<p>“I shan’t,” said she firmly. “It’s dreadful for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span> -looks. You’ve seen what so many of these English -women look like.”</p> - -<p>“Like shriveled, frost-bitten apples,” said I. -“They don’t die because they’re used to it. But it’s -death for people accustomed to civilization. Not even -the steady glow of pride in your title and position can -keep you heated up enough to save you.”</p> - -<p>“Will you give Hugh a house, if he’ll consent?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.... Until to-night or to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>And I fled from the romantic old Abbey, but not soon -enough to avoid what was threatening to be the cold of -my life.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">IX</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> moment I was in London, and before that -Sothewell Abbey cold had a chance to grip me, I went -at it. Starve, stay in bed, and keep the air out for a day—that’s -the way to put a cold out of business. Unless -it be some occasional prodigy endowed with superhuman -common sense and self-restraint, no one learns how to -take care of his health except by experience. The doctors -know precious little about disease; about health they -know nothing—naturally, they have no interest in health. -The average human being not only does not know how -to take care of his health, but also does not wish to learn -how; health involves self-denial, cutting down on food, -drink, tobacco and the other joys of life. So he who -wishes to avoid enormous payments in discomfort and -pain for slight neglects and transgressions of physical -laws has to work it out for himself. I’ve made several -valuable discoveries in the science and art of living; about -the most valuable of them is that every illness starts -under cover of a cold. So I instantly take myself in -hand whenever I begin to sneeze and to have chilly sensations -or a catch in the throat. The result has been -that since I was thirty I have not spent a cent on doctors -or lost a day through illness, and I’ve eaten and drunk -about as I pleased. I can see gentle reader’s expression<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span> -of disdain at these confessions as to my care for health. -You are welcome to your disdain, gentle reader. It is -characteristic of your shallowness. You see, the chief -difference between you and me is that I have imagination -while you have not. And as I have imagination, illness -makes to my mind a picture of revolting internal conditions -which I can no more endure than I could endure -having my outside unclean and frowzy.</p> - -<p>Margot, coming by a later train, sent me word that -she was ill. She had called in a doctor. He poured -some medicine—some poison—into her, of course, and -so got her into the way of giving him an excuse for -robbing her. In England doctors rank socially with -butchers and bakers, rank scientifically with voodoo -quacks and astrologers. They still look on a cold as a -trifle, and treat it by feeding! The food and drugs she -swallowed soon reduced Margot to the state where it was -taking all the reserve force of her youth to save her from -severe illness. I was entirely well the following day, and -went to see her. The doctor—five guineas or twenty-five -dollars a visit—was coming twice a day; his assistant—two -guineas or ten dollars a visit—was coming four -times a day. The Marchioness of Crossley, a rich American, -was ill. Her social position and Dr. Sir Spratt -Wallet’s rank as a practitioner together made it imperative -that the illness be no ordinary affair. The second -day he issued bulletins to the papers. I attempted -to interfere in the treatment, but Margot would not -have it.</p> - -<p>“She’s growing worse instead of better,” said I to -Wallet.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>“Certainly, sir,” replied he. “That is the regular -course with a cold.” And he stroked his whiskers and -looked at me with dull, self-complacent, supercilious eyes. -“The regular course, sir.”</p> - -<p>“In England, but not in America,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I dare say,” said he, with heavy politeness. Then, -after a heavy pause, “her ladyship will be quite fit -again in a week—quite fit.”</p> - -<p>As she was eating three strapping meals a day and -taking rhinitis and another equally poisonous drug I had -my doubts. But once you let a doctor in you are powerless. -If you order him out without giving him an opportunity -in his own good time to cure the mischief he -has done the consequences may be serious. Not to linger -over this incident in high life, Wallet made out of that -cold a hundred guineas, not counting his commissions -on the fees of his assistant, on the wages of a trained -nurse, and on the stuff from the chemist. If Margot had -been English born the bill would have been about one -fourth that sum—for the same rank in society. Slay -the Midianite! But that’s the rule the world over. -When I am “trimmed” abroad I console myself with -reflecting on the fate of the luckless foreigner visiting -America. Europe trims us to the quick; but we trim -to the bone; and when no foreigners are handy we keep -in practice by trimming one another.</p> - -<p>Margot’s illness did not interfere with my efforts -to right her matrimonial ship and set it in its course -again. I had greatly modified my original plan. It -involved my seeking the Marquis. My new plan was -to compel him to seek me. I proceeded so successfully<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span> -that on the morning of the third day of Margot’s -“indisposition,” while I was at breakfast in -my sitting room, Markham came in with a grin of -triumph on his face. “You win,” he cried. “But you -always do.”</p> - -<p>“Dawkins?”</p> - -<p>“Here’s his card.”</p> - -<p>“Let him up. No—wait.... Tell him I’ll see him -in half an hour.”</p> - -<p>Gentle reader, you are about to learn why in that -controversy over settlements <i>I</i> abruptly abandoned the -struggle and yielded everything. I worked with Markham -at my mail and telegrams for three quarters of an -hour before I let Dawkins in. I saw at a glance that my -treatment of him had produced the effect I had hoped. -He was a typical middle-class Englishman—but all middle-class -Englishmen are typical. He was fattish and -baldish and smug. He had a beef-and-beer face, ruddy -and smooth except tufts of red-gray, curling whiskers -before either ear. He had cold, shrewd, pious eyes—the -eyes of the hypocrite who serves the Lord with every -breath he draws, and gets a blessing upon every crime he -commits before committing it. In my first interviews -with him I, being new to England, had made the mistake -of treating him as an equal, that is, as a human being. -My respect for myself forbids me to meet any of my -fellow-members of the human race in any other fashion. -But experience has taught me that in doing business with -a man, it is being absolutely necessary that you dominate -him unless you are willing to have him dominate you, the -most skillful care must be taken to impress him with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span> -your superiority. A certain amount of “side” is useful -in America. A lot of it is imperative in England; -and if you are dealing with an Englishman who feels -that he is low, you dare not treat him as an equal or he -at once imagines you are lower than he, and despicable—and -you can do nothing with him.</p> - -<p>I had suffered, and so had my lawyer, Norman, for -our American way of treating Dawkins. I appreciated -my mistake afterwards, and resolved not to repeat it. -I studied the manner of Crossley and Blankenship and -the other upper-class men toward the middle and lower -classes, and I learned to copy it, an accomplishment of -which I am not proud, though common sense forbids me -to be ashamed of it. Dawkins, entering with heels thoroughly -cooled, made ready to put out his hand, but did -so hesitatingly. He saw that his worst fears were realized, -altered the handshaking gesture into a tug at his -right whiskers. Nor did I offer him a seat, but simply -looked at him pleasantly over the top of my newspaper -and said:</p> - -<p>“Ah, Dawkins, is that you?”</p> - -<p>“Good morning, Mr. Loring. Hope you are well, -sir,” said Dawkins, now squeezing awkwardly into his -proper place.</p> - -<p>I half turned my back on him and dictated a note -and a telegram to Markham. Then I glanced at Dawkins -again. “Ah, Dawkins, yes—what were you saying?”</p> - -<p>“I would esteem it a favor, sir, if you would give -me a few minutes of your time—alone.”</p> - -<p>“We are alone,” said I. “What is it?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[302]</span>The solicitor shifted his portly frame uneasily, -smoothed his top hat with his gloved left hand, glanced -dubiously at Markham. “The matter is confidential, -sir—relating to—to the family.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Markham knows more about my affairs than -I do,” said I. “Don’t beat about the bush, Dawkins. -I have no time to waste.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, sir. I beg your pardon. It concerns -those bonds—the bonds you turned over to me in arranging -the settlements.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I remember. Great Lakes and Gulf bonds, -were they not?”</p> - -<p>“Precisely, sir. You bound us to a stipulation -that they were not to be converted for at least five -years.”</p> - -<p>“That’s right,” said I. “In fact, I made it impossible -for you to convert them.”</p> - -<p>A pained expression came into the face of Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“I believe I conceded everything else your client demanded,” -pursued I.</p> - -<p>“But it now develops, sir,” said Dawkins, “that that -was the only important thing.”</p> - -<p>“Really?” said I.</p> - -<p>“You have doubtless seen the papers these last few -days—the stock market.”</p> - -<p>“Yes.... Yes—so the bonds <i>are</i> dropping. That’s -unfortunate.”</p> - -<p>“Dropping rapidly,” said Dawkins. “And there -are rumors that Great Lakes and Gulf will soon be practically -worthless.”</p> - -<p>“So I’ve read.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>“I’ve come to ask you to release us. We wish to -sell. We must sell. If we don’t the settlement on your -son-in-law will be worthless.”</p> - -<p>I smiled agreeably. “As worthless as his promises -to my daughter. As worthless as he is.”</p> - -<p>Dawkins was breathing heavily. His pious eyes were -snapping with rage. He had prided himself on his -astuteness. He had gloated over his shrewdness in outwitting -Norman and me. And now he discovered that -the boot was on the other leg. I had trapped him and -put him and his client in my power.</p> - -<p>I leaned back comfortably and smiled. “Of course -I know nothing about it, Dawkins, but I am willing to -make a Yankee guess that the bonds will continue to -drop until——”</p> - -<p>When my pause became unendurable, he said: “Yes, -sir. Until when?”</p> - -<p>“Until I discover some signs of value in my son-in-law. -Then he may discover some signs of value in -the bonds. Our America is a peculiar country, Dawkins.”</p> - -<p>“Peculiar will do, sir,” said he with respectful -insolence. “But I should have chosen another -word.”</p> - -<p>I shook my head laughingly. “What bad losers you -English are!” said I. “But—I’ll not detain you. -Good morning, Dawkins.”</p> - -<p>“Then I am to understand, sir——”</p> - -<p>But I had my back squarely to him and was busy -with Markham, who took his cue for the little comedy -we were playing like the well-trained American business<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span> -man that he was. Presently Markham said, “He’s -gone, and I never saw a madder man get out of a room -more awkwardly.”</p> - -<p>You, gentle reader, who know about as much of the -science of managing men in practical life as you know -of any other phase of the world-that-is—you, gentle -reader, are shocked by my rudeness to a polite, well-educated, -well-dressed Englishman. And you hope—and -feel—that I overreached myself. But let me inform -you—not for your instruction but for my own satisfaction—courtesy -has to be used most sparingly. Human -vanity is so monstrous that men eagerly read into politeness -to them—the most ordinary politeness—evidence -that their superiority is inspiring fear, awe and desire -to conciliate them. You often hear men in high place -severely criticised for being rude, short, arrogant, insulting. -Do not condemn them too hastily. It may -be that they were driven into this attitude toward their -fellows by the disastrous consequences of courtesy. Be -polite to a man and he will misunderstand. Be cool to -him and he, thickly enveloped in his own good opinion -of himself, will not feel it. Rudeness, overt and unmistakable, -is often the one way to reach him and save not -only yourself but also him from the consequences of his -vanity. It is the instinct of big men to be big and -simple and natural in their dealings with their fellows. -The mass of little men with big vanities compels them -to suppress this instinct; and by suppression it inevitably -becomes in time crushed out of existence. How -can one who is busy continue to show consideration for -others if they, instead of showing a return consideration<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span> -for him, take it as tribute to their importance and begin -to rear and impose and trample?</p> - -<p>To cite my own relatively unimportant case, I have -long had a reputation for coldness and meager civility -in my business relations. I recall distinctly the desperate -pressure of sheer imposition that led me to -abandon my early openness to all comers at all times. -And I admit that I did change; rather abruptly, too, -for it suddenly came to me why I was slipping backwards. -But looking only at my career <i>since</i> the change, -when I think of the boredom I have endured, the folly -I have permitted to waste my valuable time—when I -recall the forbearance I have shown in sparing impudent -and lazy incompetence where I might, yes, ought -to have used the ax—when I think of my good-natured -tolerance in face of extremest daily provocation, year -after year, I marvel at myself and feel how unjust, how -characteristically the verdict of little shallow men, is -the attack on me as cold and unsympathetic. When -I consider how the leaders of the human race have been -tempted to tyranny, I cannot understand why history -is able to record comparatively few real tyrants, most -of them being homicidal lunatics like Nero, or success-crazed -megalomaniacs like Napoleon, and almost none -men of sanity. If the great of earth were as vain, -as selfishly, as egotistically inconsiderate of the small -as the small are of the great and of each other, would -not the story of history have come to an end long ago -for lack of surviving characters?</p> - -<p>Two days after Dawkins came Crossley. I knew -that in America there is no one so easily frightened as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span> -a rich man who has inherited his wealth and does not -know whether, if he lost it, he could make a living or -not. All rich men are cowards, but that species is -craven. I suspected that the same thing was true of -the European type—the nobleman with the grotesque -pose of disdain for money that convinces and captivates -you, gentle reader, and your favorite authors. Crossley’s -face instantly showed me that my suspicion was -correct. He had been dissipating wildly for several -weeks, but it did not account for the look in his eyes. -If, gentle reader, you wish to learn the truth about the -aristocracy you worship—which you do not—get an -aristocrat where you can cut off or turn on his supply -of cash at will. You will then discover that he who has -a stiff neck also has supple knees—the stiffer the neck -the suppler the knees.</p> - -<p>Crossley was a clever chap in his way; that is, he -knew his business of idle spender of unearned money -thoroughly. Another mode of putting it would be the -commonplace and less exact if more alluring phrase -“aristocrat to his finger tips.” There are many modes -of cringing. He showed judgment and taste—judgment -of me, taste in sparing himself—in his choice of the -mode. With fright and wariness in his eyes—the look -of readiness to go to any depths of self-abasement in -gaining his end—he put a tone of manly, bluff, shamefaced -contrition into his voice as he said:</p> - -<p>“Pardon my breaking in on you this way. I’ve -just heard. Is <i>she</i> very ill?”</p> - -<p>He meant he had just heard about the bonds. I -knew he meant that, and he knew I knew it. But we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span> -were men of the world. “Not desperately ill,” said I. -“Only about twenty guineas a day.”</p> - -<p>He smiled a faint but flattering appreciation of my -humor, then resumed his gloomy anxiety and self-reproach. -“But she <i>is</i> ill. I read it in one of those -screaming ha’penny rags and came as fast as ever I -could. The truth is—well, we’ve had a bit of a row. -Has she told you?”</p> - -<p>“Not much,” said I. “A little.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve acted the skunk, the howling skunk—and I -want to— Do you think she’ll see me?”</p> - -<p>“If you wish, I’ll find out.”</p> - -<p>“I’d be no end grateful,” said he with enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>She saw him as soon as she could make herself presentable—and -her delay gave him a chance to tone up -his nerves and to smooth out his face. That afternoon -I was able to telegraph Edna that all was well -The Crossleys were reconciled; Love had scored another -of his famous triumphs. She came over the -following day, but I had sailed for America a few hours -before.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The day after my arrival in New York I saw Mary -Kirkwood and Hartley Beechman lunching together at -Delmonico’s. In those days that meant an engagement -actual or impending—or, at least, a flirtation far advanced -into the stage of loverlike intimacy. I was in -the passageway looking through the glass and the screen -of palms. I stood there long, noting every detail of -her. She was well, perfectly well—of that much her -eyes and her color assured me. Is there anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span> -lovelier than a clear dark skin, tastefully set off by -black-brown hair? Was she happy? I could not tell. -Still in her face was that restless, expectant look—not -unlike the expression of a child being shown a picture -book and too impatient for the next page rightly to -examine the one that is open. An intense interest in -life, an intense vitality—that fascinating capacity to -love, if she found the right man. And her beauty——</p> - -<p>Beauty she undoubtedly had. But charm does not -lie in beauty—physical charm, I mean. There is a -certain light in the eyes, a certain curve of cheek and -throat, of bosom and arm—and the blood flames and -rushes. She had charm for me. Her beauty impressed -others; it was her charm that made her the one woman -to me.</p> - -<p>Blankenship came to take me into the café where -we were to lunch. I went with the meager consolation -that while I had stood there she had given Beechman -not a single glance with any suggestion of a feeling it -would have wounded me to the quick to see. Should I -speak to her? Did I dare risk the attempt? Would not -speaking to her be merely a useless torment? After -a long struggle that could have but one end, I said: -“Excuse me,” rose and went to the palm room. They -were gone; the waiter was clearing the table at which -they had been sitting. I stared round dazedly, returned -to Blankenship.</p> - -<p>“You’re not up to the mark—what?” said he.</p> - -<p>“New York doesn’t agree with me.”</p> - -<p>“I hate towns. They give you such dirty second-hand -stuff to breathe. Let’s move on—what?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>“To-morrow,” I said.</p> - -<p>But it seemed there was no place on earth for me. -Don’t judge me so poorly as to think, or to imagine I -thought, this was due wholly to Mary Kirkwood. I -wish to be carefully, exactly accurate in this frank -recital of a man’s point of view. She was responsible -for my forlorn state to the extent that loving her had -revealed to me the futility and failure of my own life -and had made me see another sort of life that would -have been possible with her, that was impossible without -her—without love and comradeship. But loving her -did not make my life empty; it was already empty, -though I had not realized it. I understood now why -the big business men, as soon as they reached security, -cast about for some real interest. Most of them—nearly -all—were as unfortunate in their family relations -as I. They had trivial wives and trivial children—mere -silly strutters and spenders. They sought interest -in art, in science, in religion, in exploration, in -philanthropy, in politics, in stamps and butterflies, in -old books and antiques, in racing stables and prize fighting, -in gambling, in drink, in women. Their craving -was now mine. How to find an interest that would make -life attractive to me, with Mary Kirkwood left out—there -was my problem.</p> - -<p>While waiting for the solution, I followed Blankenship -to the Northwest. The second day from New -York, as he and I were walking up and down the platform -during a halt—at St. Paul, I think it was—Hartley -Beechman joined us.</p> - -<p>“Didn’t I see you in the café at Delmonico’s a few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span> -days ago?” said he. “I was getting my hat and stick -in a rush. It certainly looked like your back.”</p> - -<p>“It was,” said I. And I was seized with a wild -longing to escape from him and a wilder longing to -hold on to him and to pour out question after question.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Kirkwood and I were lunching together,” -he went on. “We talked of you. I told her I thought -I had seen you, and she said she heard you were in -town and was much hurt because you hadn’t looked -her up.”</p> - -<p>“I was merely passing through,” said I.</p> - -<p>“She has an enormous admiration for you,” continued -he. “She says you have imagination—which -means that she thinks you in the small class. You -know the world divides into sheep and goats on imagination, -with the mass in the have-not class. I believe it’s -the true distinction between House of Have and House -of Have-not.”</p> - -<p>“She is well?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Always. She knows how to take care of herself. -I never knew a woman so sensible—and sensible means -the reverse of what it’s usually supposed to mean when -applied to a woman.”</p> - -<p>This hardly sounded like an engaged man talking -of his fiancée. On the other hand, Beechman was a -peculiar chap.</p> - -<p>“Does she still live in the country?”</p> - -<p>“Just now—yes. Last winter she kept house for -Bob in New York.”</p> - -<p>But you will not be interested in how I drew from -him bit by bit a hundred details of her life, stories of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span> -what she had said and done. I saw Beechman several -hours every day until he left us at Seattle. Alternately -I thought him merely her closest man friend and her -accepted lover. At times I thought he was not quite -sure, himself, in which position he stood. When we were -having our last talk together I nerved myself and said:</p> - -<p>“I heard in London that she was to be married.”</p> - -<p>I felt him drawing in and shutting all doors and -windows.</p> - -<p>“Have <i>you</i> heard anything of it?” pursued I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, in the case of a woman like her,” replied he, -“there’s always gossip about this man and that.”</p> - -<p>“She ought to marry.”</p> - -<p>“She <i>will</i> marry.”</p> - -<p>I forced a smile, and, as we knew each other so -well, I ventured: “You speak as one having authority.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t <i>you</i> know she will?” parried he.</p> - -<p>“That sounds like evasion,” laughed I.</p> - -<p>“Not at all. She cannot escape. Some man will -convince her—surely.”</p> - -<p>“But so far as you know, no man has?”</p> - -<p>His eyes were frankly mocking. “I did not say -that,” said he.</p> - -<p>And I could get no further.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Before I returned to New York in the autumn I -had added a lot of far western enterprises to my already -long list of occupations. Everything I touched -seemed to succeed. Even my new secretary, Rossiter, -proved better than Markham. Markham had an indifferent -memory and a fondness for women that was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span> -trying. Rossiter forgot nothing and was as shy of -the women, including the ladies, as was Lord Blankenship, -who yawned and retreated at the very sight of a -skirt. The news from England was altogether satisfactory. -An heir was hoped for, and Crossley had become -a devoted husband and was about to enter politics. -This struck me as a huge joke, the more so because I -knew that in England Crossley would be welcomed as -a source of real strength to his party. It seemed to -me amazing how England could stagger along when -she was being managed by such men and was grateful -for it. But when I spoke to Blankenship about it, he set -me to thinking from a different standpoint.</p> - -<p>“My son-in-law is going into politics,” said I. “In -America he couldn’t be elected dog-catcher.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I fancy money will do most anything most -anywhere,” said he.</p> - -<p>The news from Paris was equally good. Edna had -settled there after a joyous summer going from country -house to country house in Britain, and from château -to château in France. She had seen one château -which she wished me to buy, and she begged me to come -over and inspect it. She did not explicitly say so, but -I read between the lines that she was greatly strengthening -her social position by giving out that she purposed -buying a big place. You may imagine how much -enthusiasm for her such an announcement would create -among noble down-at-the-heel families eager to exchange -unsalable old rook-roosts for American dollars. -I could hear her talking—how subtly she would put -forth the suggestion, how diplomatically she would discuss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span> -each worthless stone heap in turn—and how she -would rake in the invitations so difficult to get unless -one happens to know how, and so easy when one does -know.</p> - -<p>But with my arrival in New York I had a reverse. -A cable came from Edna saying that she was sailing -at once and wished to see me.</p> - -<p>I could not imagine what she wanted, and I did not -waste much time in making guesses. One evening, when -Armitage and I were dining together in the Federal Club—Blankenship -had sailed for home—the idea flashed -into my mind that perhaps Edna wanted a divorce. -Immediately I felt that I had hit upon the precise reason -for her coming. You will have no difficulty in imagining -what was the next idea in my train of thought. -If she divorced me I should be free to marry whom I -pleased!</p> - -<p>It was stupid of me, but in all my revolvings of my -hopeless love for Mary Kirkwood never once had I -thought of divorcing my wife. I cannot account for -this lapse, except as an instance of the universal human -failing for overlooking the obvious. There was no religious -scruple in my early training to make me shy -of divorce. On the contrary, my parents, like most -old-fashioned Americans of faiths other than Episcopal -and Catholic—and Episcopalians and Catholics -were few in the old American stock, except in New York -and Baltimore and South Carolina—most old-fashioned -Americans believed that living together in wedlock -without love was sin, that divorce was no mere -necessary evil, but a religious rite as sacred as marriage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span> -itself. A house, they held, is either a House of -Hate or a House of Love, and no one should remain in -a House of Hate, and no child should be brought up -there.</p> - -<p>No doubt, if Edna and I had been living under the -same roof the idea of divorce would have taken form, -actively definite form, long before. But we had no -home to be a House of Hate. We did not hate each -other; we bored each other. And as we were not poor, -we lived far enough apart not to annoy each other in -the least. I cheerfully paid any ransom she exacted -for leaving me free—and you may be sure she was not -inexpensive. She had her own fortune—and it gave -her quite an income—but she husbanded that. She insisted -upon state and equipage, not to mention such -small matters as stockings at fifty dollars a pair and -chemises at three hundred dollars apiece—for, she -knew how lovely she was and demanded for her beautiful -body the most beautiful garments that could be devised -by French ingenuity at combining cost and simplicity. -I was—by instinct rather than by avowed -principles—thoroughly old-fashioned in my family -ideas. Indeed, I still am; and I say this with no apology. -It may be that woman will some day develop another -and higher sphere for herself. But first she -would do well—in my humbly heretical opinion—to -learn to fill the sphere she now rattles round in like -one dry pea in a ten-gallon can. I want to see a few -more women up to the modern requirements for wife -and mother. I want to see a few more women making -a living without using their sex charms—a few less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[315]</span> -’tending the typewriter with one eye while the other and -busier is on the lookout for a husband. I believe in -emancipation of women—in votes for women—in all that -sort of thing. The one and only way to learn to swim -is in the water. I am sick and tired of woman the -irresponsible, woman the cozener and milker of man, -woman the dead weight upon man, and drawing the -pay of a housewife and shirking all a housewife’s -duties. So, you see, I am the friend of woman—not -of woman’s vanity and laziness and passion for parasiteism, -but of woman’s education and self-respect and -independence.</p> - -<p>I was thoroughly old-fashioned. My notion of wife -was the independent, self-respecting equal of her husband. -That is, I had the typical American husband’s -ideal—the ideal that dates from the pioneer days of -no property and of labor for all, the ideal the American -man still lives up to, the one that enables woman -to betray him. And, having this ideal, I never permitted -myself—no, not even when I spoke to her the contrary -in words—I never permitted myself to <i>feel</i> that my -wife was not in the main what she should be.</p> - -<p>If you have borne me company thus far, gentle -reader, turn away now. For, dreadful things are coming. -I said to Armitage: “Your sister—she’s still in -the country?”</p> - -<p>“No, she’s abroad,” replied he. “She’s visiting -friends in Budapest. Later on she’s to yacht in the -East Mediterranean—she and the Horace Armstrongs -and Beechman—and—” He gave several names I do -not now recall.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>“Is she engaged to Beechman?” I asked carelessly, -but the question was not one that could sound other -than raw.</p> - -<p>He smiled—an expression I did not like. At first -I thought it a rebuke to my impertinence. Afterwards -I saw no such notion was in his mind. “Beechman? -Good Lord, no.”</p> - -<p>“You are <i>sure</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Absolute. He’d not dare go in that direction with -<i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh—well—you see— She doesn’t care for him,” -replied Armitage lamely. I was not liking him so well, -now that I knew the world—his world—better and could -judge its beliefs and its hypocrisies more accurately.</p> - -<p>“He’s an unusual man,” said I. “She might easily -care for him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, she doesn’t,” retorted he irritably. “I happen -to know she doesn’t.”</p> - -<p>I was convinced. Armitage’s tone said in effect that -he had heard the rumor, had questioned her, had been -assured that there was no basis for it.</p> - -<p>So, she was abroad—five or six days away. I could -not go to her and make a beginning. Would I have -gone if she had been within reach? I do not know. I -rather think not. As I have said, I was old-fashioned; -and the sort of love I felt for her, and my sense of what -she had suffered at the hands of the first man she had -trusted would have made me wait, I hope, until I was -free. Still, love is insidiously compelling. Who can say -what love would or would not beguile or goad him into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span> -doing? The old-fashioned man, always reminding himself -that women haven’t an equal chance with men, was -inclined to be considerate in his dealings with a woman. -The new-fashioned man lets her look out for herself. I -am not sure that he is wrong. Perhaps some who have -read thus far will guess the reason for my doubt.</p> - -<p>You may imagine how impatiently I waited for Edna -to arrive. I am afraid Rossiter found me difficult in -those intervening days. Only the weak sort of men and -women are easy for an intelligent person to live with. -Men and women of positive character have their impossible -moods. I made this remark to Mary Kirkwood on -that yachting trip in the Sound. And her quick answer -was: “Yes, that’s true. But everything worth while is -difficult. Weathering the stormy days would have its -compensations—and more.” What a woman! No wonder -I loved her.</p> - -<p>When Edna finally arrived——</p> - -<p>What an arrival it was! She was attended by two -maids, one French, the other Italian. She had trained -them—she and their former fashionable mistresses—to -treat her as if she was a royal person, requiring the most -minute assistance, incapable even of ascertaining for -herself whether it was daylight or dark, rain or shine. -She was clad in the latest Paris fashions, adapted and -improved for her own especial charms. She wore much -jewelry, but nothing noisy. There never was anything -noisy about her—any more than there is about a burst -of sunshine that fills and floods the whole place, permeating -everywhere and dominating everything. She -talked by turns in English—with a superb British accent—in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span> -French that sounded Parisian and in Italian that -seemed as liquid and swift as the Italian maid’s. It was -a vast ship, and there were about a thousand passengers, -and much luggage. To me, to all on the pier that day, -there seemed to be but one landing and but one lot of -luggage.</p> - -<p>How many trunks had she? Heaven only knows. -The customs people were glad to expedite her after a -glance at the exhibit imposing both in extent and in -costliness. She affected a delightful, most aristocratic -unconsciousness of the stir she was making, of the excited -admiration of men, of the gaping or jeering envy -of women. Yes, it was a great day, and as I accompanied -her in the auto to the Plaza, I felt dowdy and -insignificant—felt like a humble male menial, a courier -or valet.</p> - -<p>“I did not fully appreciate your magnificence,” said -I, “until I saw you on these humble shores.”</p> - -<p>“It is shocking here—isn’t it?” said she. “So incomplete, -so crude. No wonder the ideals are low. The -surroundings give no inspiration.”</p> - -<p>“None—except for work,” said I. “It’s a land -for working people only. No doubt you’ll be going back -soon?”</p> - -<p>“As soon as I can,” replied she. With a friendly -but not tender smile: “As soon as you’ll let me.”</p> - -<p>The absence of her customary effusiveness confirmed -my theory of her coming. I had thought all out with -the utmost care. I felt it would be in every way unwise -to let her see that I was eager for the divorce. She -must open the subject. It had ever been my rule, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[319]</span> -I wanted anything, so to maneuver that the other person -should propose the exchange. It is the rule of successful -operation in every department of life. Therefore, -adhering strictly to my prearranged programme, -I could only sit tight and wait.</p> - -<p>How she tried my patience! I was mad to have the -preliminaries over, to have the divorce under way—mad, -not with the hysterical impatience of those short-sighted -people who mess their purposes through lack of self-restraint, -but with the white-hot repressed patience of -those who have their way in this world. Day followed -day, and she did not speak. I gave up the evenings -and a large part of the afternoons to her. I stayed on -after dinner until there was no further excuse for lingering. -I listened to her interminable recital of fashionable -names, dates, gossip, adventure. A week of this, and -just as my fortitude was wearing itself out and I had -begun to debate opening the subject myself, she said:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been down looking at our house. Really it’s -not half bad. Why shouldn’t we open it?”</p> - -<p>I did not know what to say. Was I mistaken in her -purpose in coming? Or was this proposal to open the -house the clever move of a clever gamester to force me -to speak first?</p> - -<p>“This lovely weather!” she went on. “It’s a shame -such a climate should be wasted upon such a vulgar city. -When I think of the dreadful rains that infest Paris and -the rains and fogs of London— How they would glory -in this sun and sparkling air.”</p> - -<p>To my notion New York was vastly more attractive -than dreary London or rainy, sloppy Paris. But I made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[320]</span> -no defense of New York. I wished her to think it crude -and tiresome.</p> - -<p>“And the fashionable society here,” she went on. -“What a silly copy of the real thing over there!”</p> - -<p>“It must remind you of Passaic,” said I.</p> - -<p>She visibly shivered.</p> - -<p>I was suddenly seized of a base inspiration. In my -despair I did not hesitate. Said I: “That reminds me. -We must go over to see the old people.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “I’m so neglectful.”</p> - -<p>I felt—I saw—that I was on the right track at last. -“When will you go?” I persisted. “Next Sunday?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps,” said she faintly.</p> - -<p>“Yes, we’ll go Sunday. They fret because you never -write.”</p> - -<p>“They are well?”</p> - -<p>“In splendid health. There’s no reason why all four -of them shouldn’t outlive us.”</p> - -<p>“You—you go often?” she faltered.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t been for some time,” said I. “You see, -I’ve been away.... If we opened the house, we could -have them visit us. That would make up to them for -the way we’ve acted.”</p> - -<p>She gazed at me in large-eyed horror. Suddenly she -smiled with patient scorn and shrugged her shoulders. -“Oh, I had forgotten your passion for jesting.”</p> - -<p>“I am in earnest,” said I—and I was indeed in the -full flood of a virtuous penitence whose hypocrisy I did -not detect until I was thinking about the matter afterwards. -You, gentle reader, would in the same circumstances -never have permitted yourself to discover the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[321]</span> -hypocrisy. I went on: “I’m ashamed of the way I’ve -acted.”</p> - -<p>“They’ve got everything they need or want,” said -Edna.</p> - -<p>“Material comfort,” replied I. “But haven’t -parents a right to expect something more? And now -that our social position is secure, we’ve no excuse for -acting snobbishly.”</p> - -<p>I enjoyed this virtuous talk for itself; still more, I -enjoyed teasing her. Her delicate, refined, ladylike -nerves were aristocratically sensitive. Have you observed -that peculiarity of lady nerves? A lady will live -with the most shocking husband for luxury. She will -endure the most degrading humiliations to get dresses, -jewels, motor cars. She will crawl in the dirt to gain -or to improve social position. She will, without a quiver, -kiss her worst enemy, cut her dearest friends, in the -furtherance of any ladylike purpose. But talk to her -of self-respecting independence, of earning her own living, -or of any of the homely decencies of life—of her -ignorant old parents or unsightly poor relatives—and -what a fairy princess of high-strung nerves she straightway -becomes. Yes, Edna was a lady—a perfect lady, -as perfect as if she had been born to it.</p> - -<p>To my surprise I had daunted her only for the day; -the following afternoon she began again. “This heavenly -weather!” she exclaimed. “It tempts me to stay -on and on.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it will last over Sunday,” said I.</p> - -<p>She ignored the shaft, and went on with undiminished -enthusiasm: “And really New York has improved.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[322]</span> -In some respects it can be compared to Paris—though, -of course, it has no background. A city can be built in -a generation or so. But to build up the country—that -takes centuries.”</p> - -<p>“It’s building up rapidly,” said I. “You’ll be astonished -Sunday by the change down where the old folks -are. The Fosdicks have bought up twenty farms or so, -and are making a park. I saw Amy Siersdorf not long -ago and she spoke of having stopped at father’s place -and got milk and corn bread.”</p> - -<p>“The fluffy little cat,” said Edna, not especially -ruffled. “I shall snub her the first time we meet. But -I was about to speak of our house. I am arranging to -open it. Of course, Margot can’t come over <i>this</i> winter, -but I don’t really need her. We owe it to our friends -here to do something socially. I want to stop the gossip.”</p> - -<p>“The gossip?” said I.</p> - -<p>“The talk because we are not living together. It -isn’t dangerous, but it’s uncomfortable. I believe people -like us ought to maintain the best social traditions—ought -to set a good example to the lower classes.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother!” said I as good-humoredly as I could. -“We’ll do as we please. Otherwise, where’s the use in -having money?”</p> - -<p>A pause which I felt was hopeful. Edna said with -affected carelessness: “<i>You</i> don’t think people have a -right to—to divorce?”</p> - -<p>At last! My intuition had been correct! “Why -not?” replied I, my tone as casual as hers. “Certainly, -if they wish.”</p> - -<p>A long silence. Then she: “Sometimes I feel that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[323]</span> -way myself. When two people find that they’re uncongenial, -that they’d be better off—happier—if free to go -their separate ways and to realize to the full their own -ideals of life— Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Precisely my view,” said I.</p> - -<p>Again a long silence. She finally said: “Has it ever -occurred to you, Godfrey, that you and I might be better -off—apart?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “It’s a good many years now since we -were together,” replied I. “We might as well be divorced -as living the way we do.”</p> - -<p>“It’s because I’ve been feeling those very things, -that I’ve come back,” said she. “It seemed to me that, -now I’ve fulfilled my duty to Margot, I ought to do my -duty to you.”</p> - -<p>“That’s like you,” said I. “For you life is one -long sacrifice.”</p> - -<p>If she scented irony she dissembled well. “Sacrifice -is the woman’s part,” replied she sweetly.</p> - -<p>“No doubt,” I went on, “you’re willing to stay here -where you’re unhappy, and for my sake to jam the -house night after night with people you care nothing -about, and disport yourself in splendor to make the -world envy me. I appreciate your nobility of character, -but I positively can’t allow it.”</p> - -<p>“We must do our duty,” said she. “Society expects -certain things of us, and we must do them.”</p> - -<p>“Not I, my dear. Open the house if you like. But -I stick to my bachelor apartment.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to go back to Europe?” said she -with a fine show of quiet melancholy.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[324]</span>“I want you to do as you please,” was my answer.</p> - -<p>“But unless I stay here, and you and I take our -place in society together, I—” She hesitated. “Now -that Margot is settled,” she went on desperately, “I am -adrift. And—Godfrey, we <i>can’t</i> go on as we are.”</p> - -<p>“I see that,” said I. “What do you propose?”</p> - -<p>“To stay in New York,” replied she, with the -promptness of the skilled fencer. “To stay here and -be the mistress of your establishment.”</p> - -<p>“My establishment is an apartment at Sherry’s.”</p> - -<p>“But that’s impossible!” remonstrated she.</p> - -<p>“Be calm, my dear. I don’t ask you to lead my -kind of life.”</p> - -<p>“Then—what do you propose?” ventured she.</p> - -<p>I shrugged my shoulders and settled myself more -comfortably in her luxurious motor. I gazed with absorbed -interest at the bunch of orchids in the flower-holder.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how we can continue neither free nor -bound,” pursued she.</p> - -<p>“Whatever you like,” said I. “Only—no fashionable -capering for me.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want me to get a divorce, Godfrey?” said -she.</p> - -<p>“I want you to be happy,” said I. “Divorce has -no terrors for me. Aren’t we practically divorced -already?”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said she. “We never did have much -in common.” Then she reddened—for, she could not -quite forget those first days of our married life, before I -got the money to feed her ambition. “You make me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[325]</span> -feel as if you were a—no, not a stranger, but only a -friend.”</p> - -<p>“And we <i>are</i> friends,” said I heartily. “And always -shall be.” For I was beginning to like her, to take -the amiably indifferent outsider’s view of her, now that -she was freeing me.</p> - -<p>“Godfrey, do you want to marry again?” she asked -with a sudden shrewd look straight into my eyes.</p> - -<p>I laughed easily. “That question might better -come from me,” said I. “You will never be happy, I -suppose, until you are the Duchess or Princess Something-or-other.”</p> - -<p>A flush stole over her small sweet face, making it -lovelier than ever. “I never thought of such a thing,” -she protested—but too energetically.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said I. “You’ve dreamed it for years. -Be honest with me, Edna.”</p> - -<p>“How could I dream it?” replied she. “It would -take an awful lot of money.”</p> - -<p>“You have quite a bunch,” said I. “And if we -parted, naturally I’d give you more.”</p> - -<p>Once again—but this time slowly—the searching -gaze turned upon me.</p> - -<p>I bore it well. “You can’t live as I live,” I went on. -“I won’t live as you live. You say that means divorce. -I don’t think so. Many rich American couples live -apart without divorce. I believe usually the reason is -the wife has found she couldn’t get a large enough slice -of the husband’s fortune, if she divorced him. Still, for -whatever reason, they stay married. You don’t like the -idea. So I say, if you want to go I’ll give you as much as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[326]</span> -I gave Margot—in addition to what you already have—and -my blessing. I’ve some sentiment about the past, -but it is as a past.”</p> - -<p>“I am—stunned,” said she. And I think her vanity -was.</p> - -<p>“It’s what you want?” rejoined I.</p> - -<p>“You put me in a hard position, Godfrey. You -give me no alternative but to accept.”</p> - -<p>“I am a hard man,” said I suavely.</p> - -<p>“You are really willing to let me go?”</p> - -<p>“You expected to have a difficult time persuading -me?” laughed I.</p> - -<p>She looked at me reproachfully. “Do be serious, -Godfrey, about these serious things.”</p> - -<p>“All right. What do you say, Edna? Yes or -no?”</p> - -<p>“I must have time to think,” replied she. “This -is a very solemn moment.”</p> - -<p>“Why fake?” said I pleasantly. “You have it all -thought out.”</p> - -<p>“It is solemn to <i>me</i>, Godfrey.”</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing solemn about our married life. -It’s a farce.”</p> - -<p>But she was searching for confirmation of her fear -of some kind of trap. “You really mean that you wish -to free me?” she said.</p> - -<p>“I mean precisely what I say,” replied I. “Freedom -and the cash are yours for the asking. But you -must ask, my dear. I’ll not have any more of your -favorite comedy of making yourself out a martyr.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t know how you hurt me,” cried she.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[327]</span> -“But you always have hurt me—always. I know—” -very gently—“that you didn’t mean to, but you haven’t -understood.”</p> - -<p>“I did my best,” said I, with the pleasant smile of -which she was so intolerant. “But what can be expected -of a plain, coarse materialist of a business man?”</p> - -<p>“Yet you are generous in many ways,” mused she. -“It’s simply that you can’t understand me.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it’s <i>you</i> that don’t understand <i>me</i>,” said I.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” inquired she.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing,” I replied carelessly. How hope to -make a vain woman, obsessed of the notion that she has -a profound and mysterious soul when she simply has a -fog-bank—how hope to make her see the truth about -herself? “It isn’t worth explaining. Only—when you -are free and you find some one who appreciates and sympathizes -with that soul of yours, be careful to pay him -well, and to keep on paying. You can always be flattered -and fooled, if you pay for it. But if you don’t -pay— Look out. You may hear the truth.”</p> - -<p>“What a cynic you are!” she cried. “Thank God, -I haven’t your low views of life.”</p> - -<p>“Keep your views, by all means,” said I. “But -don’t forget my advice. You are lovely. You are -charming. You dress beautifully and have good taste. -But it’s the money, my dear, that causes the excitement -about those charms and graces. Hold on to -your principal, and spend your income freely but -judiciously.”</p> - -<p>“If I could only convince you that there is something -beside money in the world.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[328]</span>“Not for those to whom money is the breath of -life,” replied I.</p> - -<p>When we returned to her hotel she urged me to come -in for tea. We went into the greenroom, to listen to -the music and to observe the crowds. There was a -sprinkling of men, but two thirds were women—women -of all classes and conditions, above the working class. -Women obviously fashionable as well as rich. Women -obviously only rich. Women living off men respectably. -Women “trimming” here and there. An army -of pretty women—well-cared-for bodies, attractive faces, -inviting the various kinds of sensual attack from the -subtlest to the frankest. This woman at the next table -is rather cheaply dressed, except a gorgeous hat. That -woman yonder has contrived to “trim” only a handsome -set of furs; it looks grotesque with the rest of the -costume. A third has a huge gilt bag as her sole claim -to sisterhood with the throng of fair pampered parasites -upon husbands, fathers, lovers. A charming and a useless -throng. No, not charming, unless a man happens -to be in the mood in which he succumbs to the trimming -process with pleasure—and then, he would not think -them altogether useless.</p> - -<p>“New York grows more and more like Europe,” -said my wife, gazing around with shining eyes, and inhaling -the heavily scented atmosphere with dilating -nostrils. “More and more like Europe.”</p> - -<p>“More and more,” replied I. “Especially the -women.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’re ahead of the European women,” said -she.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[329]</span>“So they are,” said I. “Yes—they beat the European -women at it. But I’m not sure whether that’s -because they are really cleverer, or merely because our -men trim more readily.”</p> - -<p>She regarded me with an expression of mildly interested -perplexity, as if she couldn’t imagine what was the -“it” I was talking about. “You must admit they are -lovely,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Admit it?” said I. “I proclaim it. If a man’s -notion of dinner is only the dessert, he couldn’t do -better.”</p> - -<p>She looked still more vague—one of her tricks when -she wished to avoid or to ignore. “I never touch desserts,” -said she.</p> - -<p>As I was leaving—for we were not dining together -that evening—she said:</p> - -<p>“I shall think about your proposal.”</p> - -<p>I looked straight at her. “Tell me whether you will -or will not confirm your own proposal,” said I. “And -don’t delay too long. Unfinished business makes me -nervous.”</p> - -<p>She returned my look with quiet composure. “I -shall let you know to-morrow,” said she.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[330]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">X</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Among</span> my acquaintances, both in and out of fashionable -society, there were not a few jealous husbands. -I knew one man who, in the evening, made his wife account -for every moment of the day, and tell him in detail -how she was going to spend the following day, and -during business hours he called up irregularly on the -telephone. He was not content with the effective system -of espionage which a retinue of servants automatically -establishes. Another man—to give a typical instance -of each of the two types—hired detectives from -time to time to watch his wife living abroad “for her -health and to educate her children.” In a decently ordered -society this sort of jealousy is rare. Only where -the women are luxuriously supported parasites and the -men are attaching but the one value to the women—the -only value they possess for them—only there do you find -this defiling jealousy the rule instead of the exception. -Naturally, if the woman is mere property the man guards -her as he guards the rest of his material possessions; and -the woman who consents to be mere property probably -needs guarding if she has qualities of desirability discoverable -by other eyes than those of her overprizing -owner.</p> - -<p>This jealousy was in the air of the offices and clubs<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[331]</span> -I frequented. But it had somehow or other never infected -me. Was I occupied too deeply with other matters? -Was I indifferent? Did my own disinclination to -dalliance make me slow to appreciate the large part dalliance -now plays in American life? I do not know why -I was free from jealousy. I only know that never once -had my mind been shadowed by a sinister thought as to -what my wife might be about, far away and free. Possibly -my knowledge of her absorption in social ambition -kept me quiet. Certainly a woman whose whole mind -and heart are set upon social climbing is about the last -person a seeker for dalliance would invest.</p> - -<p>I had never heard a word or a hint of a scandal about -her—for the best of reasons; she did nothing to cause -that kind of talk. But, how curious is coincidence! On -the very evening of the day of our divorce discussion -Edna had her first experience of scandal, and I immediately -knew of it. After leaving her I went to the Federal -Club, where I often took a hand in a rather stiff game of -bridge before dinner. I drifted into the reading room, -glanced idly at the long row of current magazines. In -full view lay the weekly purveyor of social news, a paper -I had not looked at half a dozen times in my life, and -then only because some one had asked me to read a particular -paragraph. The week’s issue of this scandal -monger had just come in. I threw back the cover, let my -glance drop upon the page. I was hardly aware that I -was reading—for my thoughts were elsewhere—when I -became vaguely conscious that the print had some relation -to me. I reread it; it was a veiled attack upon -Edna. All unsuspected by her husband—so the story<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[332]</span> -ran—she had come to America to divorce him that she -might marry a German nobleman of almost royal rank. -A voice close beside me said:</p> - -<p>“What is it amuses you so in that dirty sheet?”</p> - -<p>It was Armitage. I started guiltily. Then my -common sense asserted itself, and I pointed to the paragraph. -When he had read it I said:</p> - -<p>“Who’s the German? I’m not well enough up on -the nobility to be able to guess, though it’s probably -plainly told.”</p> - -<p>“The Count von Biestrich,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” said I, no wiser than before, and we went -up to play bridge.</p> - -<p>A year or so before I might possibly have talked -freely with Armitage; but the day of our closest intimacy -had passed. He was still my intimate friend; I was his—with -several large reservations. Why? Chiefly because -when he passed the critical age his mind took the -turn for the worse. At forty to forty-five a man begins -to reap his harvest. Armitage had many and varied -interests, but the one that affected his nature most profoundly -was women. He mocked at them; he was always -inventing or relating stories about them of the more or -less gamey sort. But, somewhat like his pretensions of -disdain for birth and fashion, his wordy scorn of women -concealed a slavish weakness for them. After forty this -began to disclose itself in his features. Their handsome -intellectuality began to be marred by a sensual heaviness; -and presently his wit degenerated toward a repellent -coarseness. It takes delicate juggling to make filth -attractive. After forty a man does well to be careful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[333]</span> -how he attempts it; for, after forty, the hand loses its -lightness. I rather avoided Armitage; not that I was -squeamish, but my sense of humor somehow rarely has -responded to rude rootings and pawings in the garbage -barrel.</p> - -<p>About an hour after dinner Edna called me to the -telephone and asked me to come to her. I found her in -high excitement, her color vivid, her manner nervous -beyond its natural vivacity even as now expanded upon -the best Continental models. “I got rid of my guests,” -said she, “and sent for you as soon as I could. Have -you heard?”</p> - -<p>“About von Biestrich?” said I.</p> - -<p>“It is hideous!—hideous!” she cried. “I who have -kept my name unsullied—I who have——”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure of that,” I interrupted. “I’m dead tired -and, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go home.”</p> - -<p>She caught me by the arm. “Godfrey, you think -this was what I had in mind. I swear to you——”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure you’ve been all that a wife is expected to -be,” said I, in my usual manner of good-natured raillery. -“And I’m also sure you would wait until you -were free, and would deliberate very carefully before -deciding——”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey, how can you!” cried she, in her most exaggerated -tone for outraged spirituality. “Have you -<i>no</i> heart? Have you no respect for me—your wife, the -mother of your daughter?”</p> - -<p>“Have I not said I did not suspect you?” remonstrated -I. “Why so agitated, my dear? Do you wish -to make me begin to suspect?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[334]</span>She shrank and began to cool down. “I’ve never -had such an experience before,” she apologized. “I -don’t know how to take it.”</p> - -<p>“It’s nothing—nothing,” I declared.</p> - -<p>“I give you my word of honor that if I were free -I should not consider marrying that German.”</p> - -<p>“I believe you.” I put out a friendly hand. “Good -night.”</p> - -<p>“This ends all talk of divorce,” said she.</p> - -<p>I dropped my hand. “I don’t see that the situation -is changed in the least.”</p> - -<p>“That’s because you are not a woman,” replied she. -“You can’t appreciate how I feel.”</p> - -<p>“You wished to be free before this paragraph appeared. -You still wish to be free.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>how</i> can you be so insensible!” cried she, all -unstrung again and, I could not but see, genuinely so. -“I <i>never</i> could face the scandal of a divorce. I didn’t -realize. It would kill me. How <i>did</i> Hilda face it?—and -all these other nice women? I should hide and -never show my face again.”</p> - -<p>She was agitating me so wildly that I felt I could -not much longer conceal it. “I must go,” said I, pretending -to yawn. “Sleep on it. Perhaps to-morrow -you’ll feel differently.”</p> - -<p>She tried to detain me, but I broke away and fled. -To be almost free and then to have freedom snatched -away! Not out of reach, but where it can be reached -easily if one will simply stretch out his hand somewhat -ruthlessly. By no means so ruthless as my wife had -been a score of times in gaining her ends without regard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[335]</span> -to me. Why not be ruthless? Had she not been ruthless? -Had she not given me the right to compel her to -free me? More, did she not herself wish to be free? -And was she not now restrained, not by consideration for -me, not by any decent instinct whatsoever, but solely by -a snobbish groveling fear of public opinion?—a senseless -fear, too?</p> - -<p>We are constantly criticising people—by way of -patting ourselves on the back—because they take what -they want regardless of the feelings of others. A form -of self-righteousness as shameless as common; for we -happen not to fancy the things they show themselves -inconsiderate and swinish about. But—when we really -do want a thing—what then? How industrious we become -in appeal to conscience—that most perfect of -courtiers—to show us how just and right it is that we -should have this thing <i>we</i> want! Having set myself -drastically to cure self-fooling years before—when first -I realized how dangerous it is and how common a cause -of failure and ruin—I was unable to conceal from myself -the cruelty of forcing Edna to divorce me. My conscience—as -sly a sophist and flatterer as yours, gentle -reader—my conscience could not convince me. Cruel -things I had never done—that is, not directly. Of -course I, like all men of action, had again and again been -compelled to do them indirectly. But not by my own direct -act had I ever made any human being suffer. I -would not begin now. I would not commit the stupidity -of trying to found my happiness upon the wretchedness -of another. I could feel the withering scorn that would -blaze in Mary Kirkwood’s honest eyes if I should go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[336]</span> -to her after having freed myself by force, and she -should find it out. I see your sarcastic smile, gentle -reader, as I thus ingenuously confess the selfish fear -that was the hidden spring of my virtue. Your smile -betrays your shallowness. If you knew human nature -you would know that all <i>real</i> motives are selfish. The -differences of character in human beings are not differences -between selfish and unselfish. They are differences -between petty, short-sighted selfishness and broad, far-sighted -selfishness.</p> - -<p>When I saw Edna again she was still wavering. She -had come to America with her mind made up for divorce, -if I could by hook or by crook be induced to consent. -She had been frightened by this attack upon her—frightened -as only those who live a life of complete -self-deception can be frightened by a sudden and public -holding up of the mirror to reflect their naked selves. -She was, of course, easily able to convince herself that -her own motives in seeking a divorce were fine and -high and self-martyring. But she could now see no -way to convince others. In the public estimation she -saw she would be classed with Lady Blankenship, -with Mrs. Ramsdell, with all the other women who -had got divorces to better themselves socially or financially.</p> - -<p>Instead of dying out the scandal grew. The daily -papers took up the hints in the society journal’s veiled -paragraph, had long cabled accounts of Count von -Biestrich, of his attentions to Edna, told when and -where they had been guests at the same châteaus and -country houses, made it appear that they had been no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[337]</span> -better than they should be for nearly a year. Edna -was prostrated.</p> - -<p>“There’s only one answer to these attacks,” she said -to me. “You must give up your apartment and move -to this hotel. We must open the house and live in it -together and entertain together.”</p> - -<p>I was not unprepared. I had threshed out the whole -matter with myself, had made my choice between the two -courses open to me—or, rather, had forced myself to see -the truth that there was in decency but the one course. -“Very well,” said I to her—and that was all.</p> - -<p>I moved to the Plaza the same day; I was seen constantly -with her; I did my best to show the world that -all was serene between us. In fact, if you saw us -during those scandal-clouded days you may have thought -us a couple on a honeymoon. Behind the scenes we -quarreled—about anything, about everything, about -nothing—as people do when forced to play in public -the farce of billing and cooing lovers. Especially if -one of them has not the faintest glimmer of a sense of -humor. But in public——</p> - -<p>The newspapers soon had to drop their campaign -of slander by insinuation.</p> - -<p>So it came to pass that by the opening of the -season Edna and I were installed in the big house, -decidedly improved now thanks to the collecting both of -ideas and of things she had done abroad. And we were -giving all kinds of parties, with me taking part to an -extent I should have laughed at beforehand as impossible. -She had become so irritating to me that the -mere sight of her put me in a rage. Have you ever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[338]</span> -been forced into intimate daily contact with a nature -that is thoroughly artificial—after you have discovered -its artificiality, its lack of sincerity, its vanity and pretense -and sex trickery? There is, as we all know, in -everyone of us a streak of artificiality, of self-consciousness, -a fondness for posing to seem better than we -are. But somewhere beneath the pose there is usually -a core of sincerity, a genuine individuality, perhaps a -poor thing but still a real thing. It may be there was -this reality somewhere in Edna. I can only say that -I was never granted a sight of it. And I rather suspect -that she, like most of the fashion-rotted women and men, -had lost by a process of atrophy through suppression -and disuse the last fragment of reality. Had Gabriel’s -trumpet sounded and the great light from the Throne -revealed the secrets of all hearts, it would have penetrated -in her to nothing but posing within posing.</p> - -<p>I shall get no sympathy from man or woman—or -fellow-beast—after talking thus of a woman and a lady. -It is the convention to speak gallant lies to and about -women—and to treat them as if they were beneath contempt. -So my habit of treating them well and speaking -the truth about them will be condemned and denounced -with the triple curse. Well—I shall try to -live through it.</p> - -<p>Except in occasional outbursts when her rude candor -toward me would anger me into retort in kind, I -concealed my feeling about her. I knew it was just, -yet I was ashamed of it. Our quarrels were all surface -affairs—outbursts of irritation—the blowing off of surplus -steam, not the bursting of the boiler and the wrecking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[339]</span> -of the machinery. If you happen to take into your -employ any of the servants we had in those days—Edna’s -maids or my valet or any other of the menials -so placed that they could spy upon our innermost -privacy—I am confident that in return for your adroit, -searching questionings you will hear we were no more -inharmonious than the usual married couple past the -best-foot-foremost stage. I did not swear at her; she -did not throw bric-à-brac at me. And once, I remember, -when I had a bad headache she stayed home from the -opera—on a Monday night, too—to read to me. It is -true the new dress in which she had expected to show -herself was not ready. But that is a detail for a cynic -to linger upon.</p> - -<p>Three months of New York, and she was bored to -extinction. I had confidently been expecting this. I -watched the signs of it with gnawing anxiety, for I -was very near to the end of my good behavior. If -possible I wished to stay on and help her toward a -rational frame of mind—one in which she would see -that divorce was the only possible solution of our impossible -situation. But I began to fear I should have -to give up and fly—to hunt or to inspect western mines -and railways. She was bored by the women; they -seemed shallow dabblers in culture after the European -women. She was offended by their nervousness about -their position; it made them seem common in contrast -with the Europeans, born swells and impregnably ensconced. -She was bored by the men—by their fewness, -by the insufferable dullness of those few—all of them -feeble imitations of the European type of elegant loafer.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[340]</span>“These men have no subtlety,” she cried. “They -have no conversation. When they’re alone with a woman—you -should hear them try to flatter. They are -as different from the European men as—as——”</p> - -<p>“As a fence-painter from an artist,” I suggested.</p> - -<p>“Quite that,” said she, and I saw her making a -mental note of the comparison for future use—one of -her best tricks. “Really, I prefer the business men -to them. But one cannot get the business men. What -a country, where everyone who has any brains is at -work!”</p> - -<p>“If you are unhappy here, why not go abroad?” -said I amiably. “Margot is always waiting for -you.”</p> - -<p>“But how <i>can</i> I go abroad?” railed she. “There’ll -be another outbreak of scandal. Was ever a woman so -wretchedly placed! What <i>shall</i> I do! If I had some -one to advise me!”</p> - -<p>It was interesting to hear her, determined, self-reliant -character though she was, thus confess to the -universal weakness of the female sex. Women, not -trained to act for themselves, can hardly overcome this -fundamental defect. That is why you so often see an -apparently, and probably, superior woman weaken and -yield where a distinctly ordinary man would be strong -and would march ahead. The trouble with Edna was -that she had no definite man behind her, spurring her -on to action. In all she had done from the beginning -of our married life she had felt that she had me to fall -back on, should emergency arise—an unconscious dependence, -one she would have scornfully denied, but none<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[341]</span> -the less real. In this affair there was no man to fall -back on.</p> - -<p>I saw this. Yet I refrained from giving her the -support she needed and all but asked. Her cry, “If I -had some one to advise me,” meant, “If I had some one -to give me the courage to act.” I knew what it meant. -But eager though I was to be quit of her, I would not -give her the thrust toward divorce that would have put -into her the courage of anger and of the feeling that -she was a martyr to my brutality. Why did I hold -myself in check? Candidly, I do not know. I distrust -the suggestion that it may have been due to essential -goodness of heart. At any rate, I did restrain myself. -She—naturally enough—misunderstood; and she proceeded -to explain it to the gratifying of her vanity. I -saw in her eyes, in her way of treating me, that she -thought me her secret adorer, convinced of my unworthiness, -of her god-to-mortal superiority; not daring -openly to resist her desire to be free from me, but -opposing it humbly, silently. I saw that she pitied me. -Did this add to my anger? Not in the least. I have -a perhaps queer sense of humor. I rather welcomed -the chance to get a little amusement out of a situation -otherwise dreary and infuriating.</p> - -<p>Curiously enough, it was Armitage who came to her -rescue—and to mine.</p> - -<p>Bob had been in retirement several weeks, having -himself rejuvenated by a beauty doctor. You are astonished, -gentle reader, perhaps incredulous, that a -man of his position—high both socially and financially—should -stoop to such triviality—not a woman but a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[342]</span> -man. And the serious, masculine sort of man he was, -I assure you. But you, being a confirmed accepter of -the trash written and talked about human nature, do -not appreciate what a power physical vanity is in the -world. Of course, if you are a man, you know about -your own carefully hid physical vanity. But you -think it in yourself a virtue, quite natural, not a vanity -at all. Bob Armitage was not vain enough to fail to -see the beginning of the ravages of time and dissipation. -Another man would have looked in the glass and -would have seen a reflection ever handsomer as the -years went by, would have discovered in the creases and -crow’s-feet and lengthening wattles a superb beauty of -manly strength of character showing at last in the face. -Bob was not that sort of fool. He wished to fascinate -the ladies; so, he strove to retain the fair insignia of -youth as long as he possibly could. He knew as well -as the next man that his wealth had value with the -women far beyond any degree of beauty or charm. But -like most men he wished to feel that he was at least not -a “winner” in spite of his personal self; and his young -good looks even helped toward the pleasantest of delusions—that -he was loved for himself chiefly.</p> - -<p>The beauty doctor did well by him, I must say. He -looked ten years younger, would have passed in artificial -light for a youth of thirty or thereabouts. He reappeared -in his haunts, freshened up mentally, too; -for physical content reacts powerfully upon the mind, -and while it is true that feeling young helps one to look -young, it is truer that looking young compels one to -feel young.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[343]</span>With him came a Prince Frascatoni, head of one of -the great families of Italy, one of the few that have -retained German titles and estates from the days of the -Holy Roman Empire. Frascatoni was sufficiently rich -for all ordinary purposes, and could therefore pose as -a traveler for pleasure with no matrimonial designs. -He was, in fact, poor for a <i>grand seigneur</i> and was -on the same business in America that has attracted -here every other visiting foreigner of rank—except -those who come for political purposes, and those -who come to shoot in the West. And those classes -give our fashionable society as wide a berth as -they would its middle-class prototype in their home -countries.</p> - -<p>The first time I saw Frascatoni—when he and Armitage -strolled into the reading room of the Federal -Club together—I thought him about the handsomest -and, in a certain way, the most distinguished-looking -man I had ever seen. He was a black Italian—dark -olive skin, coal-black hair, dark-gray eyes that seemed -black or brown at a glance. They were weary-looking -eyes; they gazed at you with the ineffable dreamy -satiric repose of a sphinx who has seen the futile human -procession march into the grave for countless centuries. -He had a slow sweet smile, a manner made superior by -the effacement of every trace of superiority. He had -the quiet, leisurely voice of one used to being listened -to attentively.</p> - -<p>“Loring—the Prince Frascatoni. Prince, I particularly -wish you to know my friend Godfrey Loring. -Don’t be deceived by his look of the honest simple<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[344]</span> -youth into thinking him either young or unsophisticated.”</p> - -<p>The prince gave me his hand. As it had also been -my habit ever since I learned the valuable trick merely -to give my hand, the gesture was a draw. Neither had -trapped the other into making an advance. We talked -commonplaces of New York sky line, American energy -and business enthusiasm for perhaps half an hour. -Then we three and some one else, a professional cultivator -of millionaires named Chassory, I believe, played -bridge and afterwards dined together. It came out -sometime during the evening that Frascatoni had met -my wife in Rome and in Paris, and that he knew my -son-in-law—not surprising, as the fashionable set is international, -and is small enough to be acquainted all -round.</p> - -<p>Armitage must have told him that my wife and I -were not altogether inconsolable if we did not see too -much of each other. For, the prince, taking Edna in -to dinner a few nights later, laid siege at once. I recall -noting how he would talk to her in his quiet, leisurely -way until she looked at him; then, how his weary eyes -would suddenly light up with interest—not with ardor—nothing -so banal as that—but a fleeting gleam of interest -that was more flattering than the ardor of another -man would have been. As Frascatoni, an unusual -type, attracted me, I saved myself from boredom -by observing him all evening. And it was highly instructive -in the art of winning—whether women or men—to -see how he led her on to try to make that fascinating -fugitive gleam reappear in his eyes. I afterwards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[345]</span> -discovered that he accompanied the gleam with a peculiar -veiled caress of inflection in his calm, even voice—a -trick that doubly reënforced the flattery of the gleam.</p> - -<p>“What a charming man Prince Frascatoni is,” said -my wife, when our guests were gone.</p> - -<p>“Very,” said I. “If I were writing a novel I’d -make him the hero—or the villain.”</p> - -<p>“He is one of the greatest nobles in Europe.”</p> - -<p>“He looks it and acts it,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Why, I thought him very simple and natural,” -protested she.</p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said I. “So many of the nobles I’ve -met looked and acted like frauds. They seemed afraid -it wouldn’t be known that they were of the aristocracy.”</p> - -<p>“You are prejudiced,” said Edna.</p> - -<p>“Then why do I size up Frascatoni so well?”</p> - -<p>“You happen to like him.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t,” replied I.</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” said Edna with sarcasm. “He -isn’t in business.”</p> - -<p>“Precisely,” I answered. “He couldn’t do anything—build -a railroad, run a factory, write a book, -paint a picture. He and his kind are simply amateurs -at life, and their pretense that they could be professionals -if they chose ought to deceive nobody. He probably -could ride a horse a little worse than a professional -jockey, or handle a foil almost as well as a fencing -master, or play on the piano or the violin passably. -I don’t admire that sort of people, and I can’t like -where I don’t admire.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[346]</span>Edna yawned and prepared to go up to her own -rooms. “I hope he’ll stay a while,” said she. “And -I hope he’ll let me see something of him. He’s the first -ray of interest I’ve had this winter.”</p> - -<p>“You will see something of him,” said I. “He -liked you.”</p> - -<p>“You think so?” said she, seating herself on the -arm of a chair.</p> - -<p>“I know it. Unless he finds what he’s looking for, -he’ll attach himself to you.”</p> - -<p>“What is he looking for?”</p> - -<p>“A very rich wife,” said I. “But she must be attractive -as well as rich, Armitage tells me. Frascatoni -doesn’t need money badly enough to annex a frump. -And Armitage says that while Englishmen and Germans -and the heiress-hunting sort of French don’t care -a rap what the lady looks like, the Italians—of the -old families—are rather particular—not exacting, -but particular. Unless, of course, the fortune is -huge.”</p> - -<p>Edna yawned again. That sort of talk either irritated -or bored her.</p> - -<p>Frascatoni was constantly with her thenceforth—not -pointedly or scandalously so; there are discreet ways -of doing those things, and of discretion in all its forms -the Italian was a supreme master. The game of man -and woman had been his especial game from precocious -and maddeningly handsome boyhood. He had learned -both by being conquered and by conquering. They say—and -I believe it—that of all the foreigners a clean -Italian nobleman is the most fascinating.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[347]</span>The Hungarian or Russian is a wild, barbaric love-maker, -the German a wordy sentimentalist, the Englishman -dominates and absorbs, the Frenchman knows -how to flatter the most subtly, how to make the woman -feel that life with him would be full of interest and charm. -But the right sort of Italian combines the best of all -these qualities, and adds to them the allure of the unfathomably -mysterious. He constantly satisfies yet -always baffles. He reveals himself, only to disclose in -the inner wall of what seemed to be his innermost self -a strangely carved door ajar.</p> - -<p>My first intimation of what Frascatoni was about -came from my wife. Not words, of course, but actions. -She abruptly ceased quarreling, rebuking, reproaching, -scoffing. She soothed, sympathized, agreed. She became -as sweet as she had formerly been. I was puzzled, -and waited for light. It came with her next move. -She began to talk of going back to Europe, to deplore -that scandalmongers would not let her. She began to -chaff me on my love of a bachelor’s life, on my dislike -of married life. She said with reproachful, yet -smiling gentleness, that I made her feel ashamed to -stay on.</p> - -<p>“Admit,” said she, “that you’d be better pleased if -I were in Guinea.”</p> - -<p>“You oughtn’t have given me so many years of -freedom,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You’d have been glad if I had gone on and gotten -a divorce,” pursued she.</p> - -<p>My drowsing soul startled and listened. “I was -willing that you should do as you liked,” said I. “Divorce<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[348]</span> -is a matter of more importance to the woman than -to the man—just as marriage is.”</p> - -<p>“And it’s a sensible thing, too—isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Very,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Godfrey, would you honestly be willing?”</p> - -<p>“I’d not lay a straw in your way.”</p> - -<p>“What nonsense we’re talking!” cried she, with a -nervous laugh. “And yet there’s no denying that we -don’t get on together. I see how trying it is to you to -have me about.”</p> - -<p>“And you want to be free and living abroad.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder how much I’d really mind the scandal,” -pursued she. “I don’t care especially about these New -York people. And at the worst what harm could they -do <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>“None,” said I.</p> - -<p>“They could only talk. How they’d blame me!”</p> - -<p>“Behind your back, perhaps,” said I. “Unless they -thought I was to blame—which is more likely.”</p> - -<p>“You talk of divorce as if it were nothing.”</p> - -<p>“It’s merely a means to an end,” said I. “You’ve -got only the one life, you know.”</p> - -<p>“And I’m no longer so <i>dreadfully</i> young. Though, -I heard that Armitage said the other day he would never -dream I was over twenty-eight if he didn’t know.”</p> - -<p>She laughed with the pleasure we all take in a compliment -that is genuine; for she knew as well as did -Armitage that she could pass for twenty-eight—and a -radiant twenty-eight—even in her least lovely hour.</p> - -<p>“No one has youth to waste,” observed I. “In your -heart you wish to be free—don’t you?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[349]</span>“We are not suited to each other, Godfrey,” said -she with gentle friendliness.</p> - -<p>“There’s not a doubt of that,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Why should we spoil each other’s lives? I conceal -it from you, but I am so unhappy here.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t blame <i>me</i>,” said I. “I’m not detaining -you.”</p> - -<p>A long silence, then she said: “Suppose I were to -consent—” I laughed, she reddened, corrected herself: -“Suppose we were to decide to do it—what then?”</p> - -<p>“Why—a divorce,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Can’t those things be done quietly?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. No publicity until the decree is entered -and the papers sealed.”</p> - -<p>“Does that mean no scandal beyond just the fact?”</p> - -<p>“No scandal at all. Just the fact, and some newspaper -comment.”</p> - -<p>“And we needn’t be here.”</p> - -<p>“Not then.”</p> - -<p>“Would it take long?”</p> - -<p>I reflected. “Let me see—if you begin action say -within a month, the divorce would take— I could have -it pushed through in another month or so, and then—by -next fall you’d be free.”</p> - -<p>“But doesn’t one have to have grounds for divorce, -beside not wanting to be married?”</p> - -<p>“All that easily arranges itself,” said I.</p> - -<p>She lapsed into a deep study, I furtively watching -her. I saw an expression of fright, at the daring of her -thoughts, gather—fright, yet fascination, too. Said she -in a low voice: “Godfrey, are you <i>serious</i>?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[350]</span>“Entirely so,” was my careless reply. “Aren’t -you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether I am or not.... I am -<i>wretched</i> here!”</p> - -<p>“All you have to do is to say the word. We don’t -in the least need each other, and mutual need is the only -respectable excuse for marriage. And I must tell you, -I’ll not stand for any more of this social nonsense that -compels me to participate. I’m done.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me pityingly. Our season had been a -brilliant success, yet I remained unconverted, coarsely unsympathetic. -“If I should decide to—to do it—what -then?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing. I’d go away. The rest would be for the -lawyers.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me dazedly. “I’ll see—I’ll see,” she -said, and went to her own part of the house.</p> - -<p>A week passed. Frascatoni sailed for home, sending -by her his polite regrets at not having seen me before -his departure. I waited, confident. I knew she had a -definite goal at last, and, therefore, a definite purpose. -Aside from the danger of frightening her back by showing -my own eagerness there was the matter of property. -I was willing to pay a good round price for freedom. -I have always hated money wrangles; I had never had -one with her, and I did not purpose to have. On the -other hand, that is, on her side, she would have given me -short shrift had it not been that she wished a slice of my -fortune—and a generous slice—to add to her own. I’ve -not a doubt that the fierce social campaign she put me -through that winter was not so much for her own pleasure,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[351]</span> -though she delighted in it, as for goading me to -demand a divorce, and, so, enable her to ease her conscience -and to drive a better bargain.</p> - -<p>My seeming indifference, combined with her now -trembling eagerness to be free and away, soon forced -her hand. The break came on a Sunday afternoon. Life -is so inartistic—that is, from the standpoint of the cheap -novelists and playwrights with their dramatic claptrap. -Here is how the grand crash was precipitated:</p> - -<p>Said I: “Well, I’m off for a few weeks’ fishing.”</p> - -<p>“You’re not starting now?” said she.</p> - -<p>“Day after to-morrow,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But I’ve made several engagements for you.”</p> - -<p>“Get a substitute,” said I. “No one will miss me.”</p> - -<p>“How inconsiderate you are!”</p> - -<p>“That’s pretty good—after all I’ve borne this winter.”</p> - -<p>“You are insufferable!” cried she.</p> - -<p>“Then—why suffer me?” said I coolly.</p> - -<p>“If you torture me much further, I won’t,” retorted -she.</p> - -<p>“I think I’ll clear out to-night,” said I.</p> - -<p>“With people coming to dinner to-morrow! A big -dinner!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—to-night,” said I. “I had forgotten to-morrow’s -horrors.”</p> - -<p>“If I were free!”</p> - -<p>“That’s easy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I <i>will</i> be free!”</p> - -<p>“I’ll send you a lawyer at eleven to-morrow morning.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[352]</span>She was pale and trembling. The quarrel was a -mere pretense—a pretext so flimsy that each knew the -other was not deceived by it. Her tones of anger, my -tones of abrupt and contemptuous indifference were obviously -false and forced. As I left the room I cast a -furtive glance at her, saw that her daring was so terrifying -her that she could hardly keep a plausible front of -haughty anger.</p> - -<p>It was several hours before I could get away from -the house, though I made all haste. Every moment I -expected some word from her. But none came. I sent -the lawyer the following morning. I was surprised when -later in the day, by the necessary roundabout way, I -learned that she had actually consented.</p> - -<p>She showed that she had made an exhaustive study -of the subject, like the wise campaigner she was. She -thoroughly understood how to proceed; for, she told her -lawyer—the one of my lawyers whom I assigned to her—that -my coldness to her had filled her with suspicion -and that she wished detectives employed. She needed -no coaching whatever; he found her prepared on every -point.</p> - -<p>How far had matters gone between her and Frascatoni? -Not so far as you imagine; but perhaps farther -than I think. Both the husband and the world are -poor judges in those affairs.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I shall pass over the suit. It was commonplace -throughout. There has been much speculation as to the -person named by my wife in the sealed papers. I can -truthfully say that I know as little about that person<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[353]</span> -as does the public. It is usually so, I believe, in these -arranged suits. I did not appear at any of the hearings, -all of them held secretly. Nor did Edna appear, -though I believe that, to comply with the forms of law, -she made some sort of deposition in the presence of the -lawyers for both sides. It so happened that the first -and only public step—the judge’s ordering of the decree -of divorce—was published on the same day with the -news of a big prize fight, a sensational murder, and a -terrific earthquake. So, we got off with little public attention. -At the time the law provided that a decree -should not become valid for six months. We were nominally -free; but actually neither could marry again for -six months and meanwhile either of us could reopen the -case—and she could by merely requesting put an end -to it and restore her status as my wife. So, I was free—unless -Edna should change her mind sometime within -the six months.</p> - -<p>Edna was in London and I in Paris when the news -came. Curiously enough, as I stood in the doorway of -the Ritz restaurant, that evening, looking about for a -table where I could dine alone, in came Prince Frascatoni -with another Italian whose name I cannot recall. I -bowed to Frascatoni. He said:</p> - -<p>“You are alone, sir?”</p> - -<p>“Unluckily, yes,” replied I.</p> - -<p>He introduced his companion and suggested that we -three dine at the same table. “Why not share our dinner?” -said he. “I can easily change my order. Perhaps -you will go with us afterwards to some amusing -little plays in a Montmartre theater?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[354]</span>I accepted the courteous invitation. The situation -appealed to my sense of humor. Also I knew that Edna—toward -whom I now felt most kindly—would be delighted -to read in the papers: “Prince Frascatoni had -as his guest at dinner last night Mr. Godfrey Loring.” -It would put an immediate stop to any tendency to gossip. -As the prince did not speak of my former wife I -assumed that he had heard the news.</p> - -<p>When we were separating I said: “You will dine -with me to-morrow night?”</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately I’m leaving town in the morning,” -said he.</p> - -<p>I thought I could guess which way he was journeying. -With perhaps a twinkle in my eyes, I said: “So -soon? Well—thank you, and good-by—and good luck.”</p> - -<p>I thought I saw a sardonic smile flit over his face. -He probably imagined I was in the dark as to his -maneuverings and designs and smiled to himself as he -thought, “How differently this American would be -treating me if he knew!” Do not fancy, because Edna -had no charm for me, I thought it strange she should -have charm for other men. Nothing could be further -from the truth. I appreciated her attractive points -perhaps more than any other man possibly could. Also, -I appreciated—and still appreciate—that another man -would not be so peculiarly annoyed by her lack of any -sense of humor as I was. Indeed, had not circumstances -forced me into the acutely critical mood toward her, I -doubt not I could have continued to bear with that lack, -though it made conversation with her all but impossible -and precipitated quarrels without number.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[355]</span>Beyond question the strongest and most enduring -hold a man can get upon a woman or a woman upon a -man is the physical. We—even the least intellectual of -us—are something more than physical; but the physical -must be contented first, and must remain contented, because -we are first of all physical. The physical is the -fundamental; but it takes more than foundations to make -a house. And a marriage such as ours was could not endure. -Each of us had but the one charm for the other. -It wore itself out like a fire that is not supplied with fuel.</p> - -<p>If I had not fallen in love with another woman, there -might have remained a feeling for Edna that would -have made me jealous, perhaps domineering toward her. -As it was, I viewed her calmly; when I said “good luck” -to Frascatoni, I meant it. I hoped he would make Edna -happy, for, I wished her well.</p> - -<p>Through Armitage I had provided myself with Mary -Kirkwood’s address—an apartment overlooking the Parc -Monceau which she and Neva Armstrong had taken for -the spring months. That very afternoon I went to leave -cards. As I feared she was not at home. “But,” said -Mrs. Armstrong, “you may find her walking in the -park with Hartley Beechman.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, is he here?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Naturally,” replied she.</p> - -<p>You may picture me as suddenly dashed down by this -word whose meaning there was no mistaking. If so, you -have discovered little about me in these pages. Life had -made me a competent judge of the situation that is really -hopeless, the situation where to struggle is folly, and -that situation which seems hopeless to the small of earth,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[356]</span> -accustomed to defeat in their desires, but seems only difficult -to the other sort of human beings.</p> - -<p>“He has taken a studio over in the Latin quarter,” -continued Mrs. Armstrong. “We are all going back -together in July.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Armstrong is an attractive woman—singularly -so for one who is obviously wholly absorbed in her husband. -She has the sort of personality her paintings -prepare you to expect. But I had difficulty in concealing -my impatience to get away. I strolled several times -through the park, which is not large, before I finally came -upon Mary and Beechman seated in one of the less-frequented -paths. As I was moving directly toward them, -both saw me at the same instant. Her welcoming smile -was radiant. I did not notice his, but I assume it was -more reserved.</p> - -<p>Never had I seen her looking so well. You may -say what you please, but an American woman who knows -how to dress, in touch with a French dressmaker who is -rather artist than dressmaker, is the supreme combination -for æsthetic beauty. Mrs. Kirkwood, of the -ivory skin and the coal-black hair, was a thrilling sight -to see in her white dress and big black hat, with that -background of fresh spring foliage and late afternoon -light. Her eyes and her smile, I noted for the first time, -had somewhat the same quality as Frascatoni’s—the -weary eyes, the slow sweet smile.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Loring!” she cried, rising and extending her -hand impulsively. “I thought I was never to see you -again.”</p> - -<p>I hid my emotion and greeted her, then Beechman, in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[357]</span> -my habitual manner which, they tell me, is the reverse of -effusive. I suppose, when I am deeply moved, its lack -of cordiality becomes even more pronounced. After a -few minutes of the talk necessary among acquaintances -who have not met in a long time Beechman rose.</p> - -<p>“You and Beechman will dine with me, I hope?” I -said. “Mrs. Armstrong says she will go if you can.”</p> - -<p>It was arranged and, as the day was warm, d’Armenonville -was fixed upon as the place. “Until half-past -eight,” said Beechman as he left. Mary and I sat silent -watching him walk away. A superb figure of young -manhood, supremely fortunate in that his body was an -adequate expression of a strong and simple nature.</p> - -<p>As he passed from view at the turn of the walk I -transferred my gaze to her. Her eyes slowly lowered, -and a faint flush came into her cheeks. Said I:</p> - -<p>“You saw the news—about me?”</p> - -<p>“Hartley and I were talking of it as you appeared.”</p> - -<p>“You were not surprised?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—and no,” replied she, with constraint and -some confusion. “A year or so ago I—people thought—you -and she had—had drifted apart. Then it looked -as though you had come together again. It seemed the -natural thing. She is beautiful and has so much charm.”</p> - -<p>“She was unhappy in America. She wished to be -free.”</p> - -<p>Mary looked at me reflectively. “You are not—inconsolable, -I see,” said she with a smile of faint raillery. -“My brother has often told me about you—how indifferent -you are to women. Perhaps that is why you are -attractive to them.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[358]</span>“Am I?” said I. “I did not know it.”</p> - -<p>“You are terribly impersonal,” she went on laughingly. -“Last summer I—well, I was not—that is, not -exactly—trying to flirt with you. But your absolute unconsciousness -of me as a woman was often very—baffling.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “You thought that?”</p> - -<p>“How could I help seeing it? Why, you treated me -precisely as if I were another man. Not that I didn’t -like it, on the whole. A woman gets tired of being always -on guard.” She smiled at herself. “That sounds -horribly conceited. But you know what I mean. The -men never lose a chance to practice. Then, too—well, if -a woman has the reputation of being rich she need not -flatter herself that it is her charms that do all the drawing.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the supreme curse of money—it all but cuts -one off from love and friendship. Fortunately it, to a -great extent, takes the place of them.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like to hear you say that,” said she.</p> - -<p>“How many poor people get love and friendship?” -replied I. “Isn’t it the truth that there is little—very, -very little—real love or friendship in the world? All I -meant was that money, and the independence and comfort -and the counterfeit of affection it brings, are better -than nothing at all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see,” said she. “You are so sensible—and -you don’t cant. That was why I liked to talk with you. -At first I thought you cynical and hard. That’s the first -impression plain good sense makes. We are used to -hearing only shallow sentimentality.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[359]</span>“The unending flapdoodle,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Flapdoodle,” agreed she. “Then—I began to discover -that you were anything but hard—that you looked -at people as they are, and liked them for themselves, not -for what they pretended to be. I was beginning to trust -you—to venture timidly in the direction of being my -natural self—when you left.”</p> - -<p>“Well—here I am again,” said I. “And we start in -afresh.”</p> - -<p>She smiled with embarrassment. “Yes,” she said -hesitatingly. “But the circumstances have changed -somewhat.”</p> - -<p>I know full well now what I should have said. I -should have replied, “Yes—we are both almost free—but -soon will be altogether free—I in six months, you as -soon as you break your engagement.” That would have -been bold and intelligent—for it is always intelligent to -make the issue clear at the earliest possible moment. But -I did not speak. I remained silent. Why? Because as -I was talking with her I was realizing that I had been -deceiving myself in a curious fashion. I had been so concentratedly -in love with her— Gentle reader, I see the -mocking smile on your shallowly sentimental face. You -are ridiculing a love that could have such restraint as -mine—that could bear with Edna, could wait, could refrain -from any of the familiar much-admired impetuosities -and follies. You cannot understand. In this day -when men no longer regard or feel their responsibilities -in taking a more or less helpless woman to wife, your -sense of the decencies is utterly corrupted. But let me -say that no matter how ardently and romantically a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[360]</span> -may conduct himself, a woman would do well to take care -how she trusts him if he has a bad or even a doubtful -record as to his way of meeting his responsibilities of -whatever sort. That kind of love may “listen good,” but -it does not “live good.” However—as I was about to -say when your smile interrupted me, my all-absorbing -love for Mary Kirkwood had misled me into assuming, -with no reason whatsoever, that she understood all, -that she knew I was eager to come to her, and would -come as soon as I could. You will say this was absurd. -Granted. But is not a man in love always absurd? -You will say it was egotistical. Granted. But is not -a man in love always egotistical? It is not the realities -but the delusions that keep us going; and in those -long months of waiting, of hoping often against hope, -I had to have a delusion to keep me going. But now, -her friendly, simply friendly, way of talking to me -made me see that I had her yet to win, that I could -not speak out directly as I had planned. You, who probably -know women well, may say that this was a mistake. -Perhaps. Nevertheless <i>I</i> could not have done -otherwise.</p> - -<p>You will say that women do not know their own -minds, but have to be told. I admit it. You will say -my silence was timidity. I admit it. I could not talk -of love to a woman until I was sure she wished to hear. -I had the timidity of the man to whom woman and love -are serious matters; the timidity unknown to the man -who makes love to every passable female at whom he has -a chance; the timidity which all women profess to approve, -but which, I more than suspect, appeals only to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[361]</span> -the jaded palate of the woman who has long made love -and passion her profession.</p> - -<p>As Beechman was busy with a novel I had everything -my own way without strategy during those following -days. There are a thousand attractive places to go in -and near Paris, and I was resourceful in contriving excursions -for the days when there was no chance of seeing -only her. Almost every day the London papers or the -Paris <i>Herald</i> printed something about Edna and the brilliant -season she was having in London; often not far -away from her name in a list of guests was the name of -Prince Frascatoni. My own activities, more Bohemian -as was my taste and the taste of my friends—and I may -say the taste of civilized and intelligent Paris—my activities -were not recorded in the papers. I fancied they -were unobserved. I was soon to be undeceived.</p> - -<p>I wonder who the people are that write anonymous -letters—and give anonymous “tips” to society journals? -Every once in a while by mischance—often by my having -made a remark that was misinterpreted into something -malicious or low, utterly foreign to my real meaning—I -have had some fellow-being suddenly unveil a noisome -corner in his or her soul for confidently awaited sympathy; -and I have almost literally shrunk back in my -horror at the cesspool of coarseness, or at the vicious -envy. Have you had that experience? No doubt scattered -among us ordinary folk, neither particularly good -nor particularly bad, well rather than ill-disposed and -amiable, if not too severely tried or tempted—no doubt, -scattered among us there are not a few of these swine -souls or snake souls, hid beneath a pleasant smile and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[362]</span> -fine raiment. And these are they who give off the foulness -of the anonymous letters and the anonymous tip.</p> - -<p>In one of the minor London society papers appeared -this paragraph which I am sure I quote word for word:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“American Paris is much amused these beautifully -fine spring days with the ardent love-making -of a recently divorced railway ‘baron.’ The lady -is herself a divorcee of several years standing and -is supposed to be engaged to a famous young literary -man who is all unaware of what is going on.”</p> -</div> - -<p>I know of five copies of this journal that were mailed -with the paragraph marked. The five were received by -Edna, Margot, myself, Mary Kirkwood, and Hartley -Beechman. I have often mentally gone through the list -of my acquaintances in search of the person who was responsible -for this thing. I have some extremely unpleasant -characters in that list. But I have never been able -to suspect who did it. Not improbably the guilty person -is some one in other respects not a bad sort—for -almost any given cut from that vast universal, human -nature, contains something of everything.</p> - -<p>I had an engagement with Mary Kirkwood to walk -in the Bois and have tea the afternoon of the day this -paragraph reached me. When I arrived at her apartment -she came down ready to go. Her costume was so -lovely and I so delighted in her that I did not immediately -note the heavy circles round her eyes nor the -drawn expression of her mouth. I did not dream that -she knew of the paragraph. I had read it and had dismissed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[363]</span> -it from my mind. The anonymous letter and the -anonymous newspaper attack were old familiar stories to -me, as they are to every man who attains distinction in -active life. But as we drove toward the Bois I happened -to catch a glimpse of her by way of the mirror in -the frame of the taxi. I saw the evidence of suffering—and -the wistful, weary look in her beautiful eyes.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said I. “You have had bad news?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied she.</p> - -<p>“Can I help?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t let’s talk of it now,” said she. “Wait until -we are in the woods.”</p> - -<p>Soon after we passed the entrance gates we descended -and rambled away over the not too even ground, -along the indistinct paths under the fascinating little -trees. It was a gorgeous, perfumed May day. You -know the Bois—how lovely it is, how artfully it mingles -the wild and the civilized, suggesting nature as a -laughing nymph with tresses half bound, half free, -with graceful young form half clad, half nude. We -rambled on and on, and after half an hour seated ourselves -where there were leaves and the slim graceful -trunks on every side and the sound of falling water -like the musical voice of the sunbeams.</p> - -<p>Mary drew a long sigh. “I feel better,” she said.</p> - -<p>I looked at her. “You <i>are</i> better. You have -shaken it off.”</p> - -<p>She met my gaze. “This is the last time,” she said. -She looked away, repeated softly, thoughtfully, “the -last time.”</p> - -<p>“The last time?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[364]</span>“We are not going to see each other any more. -It is being misunderstood.”</p> - -<p>I glanced quickly at her, and I knew she had read -the paragraph. “That miserable scandal sheet!” said -I. “No one sees it—and if they did why should we -notice anything so ridiculous?”</p> - -<p>She did not answer immediately. After a while she -said: “Perhaps I ought not to say it, but—Hartley is -sensitive. A copy of the paper got to him.”</p> - -<p>“One to me. One to you. One to him.”</p> - -<p>“No matter,” said she. “The mischief is done.”</p> - -<p>“You do not give up a friend lightly,” rejoined I. -The time to speak was at hand; I welcomed it.</p> - -<p>“<i>He</i> has asked me to give you up,” said she simply. -“And I shall do it.”</p> - -<p>“But he has no right to ask such a thing,” protested -I.</p> - -<p>“Yes—he has. He and I are engaged—you knew -that?”</p> - -<p>“I imagined there was some sort of an engagement,” -said I, still waiting for the right opening.</p> - -<p>“There is only one sort of engagement possible -with me,” replied she, with a certain gentle reproach.</p> - -<p>“I know that,” said I. “But I remember the talk -we had on the yacht.”</p> - -<p>A flush overspread her paleness for a moment. -Then she rose from the little rustic iron chair. “We -must go,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Wait,” said I. And I made a tactless, a stupid -beginning: “You can’t deny that you do not love -him.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[365]</span>She turned coldly away and walked on, I following. -“I think I’ll not stop for tea,” she said. “Will you -hail the first taxi we meet?”</p> - -<p>“You are offended—Mary?” I said. What a blundering -fool love does make of a man!—unless he makes -a fool of it.</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “No—not offended. But -when a subject comes up about which we may not talk -there is nothing to do but drop it.”</p> - -<p>In my desperation I reached for the right chord -and struck it. “Do you know,” said I, “why I left -the yacht abruptly?”</p> - -<p>She halted, gave me a swift, frightened glance. -The color flooded her face, then fled.</p> - -<p>“Yes—that was why,” said I. “And—I’ve come -as soon as I could.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, why, why didn’t you <i>tell</i> me?” cried she. -Then, before I could answer, “I don’t mean that. I -understand.” Then, with a wild look around, “<i>What</i> -am I saying?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve come for you, Mary,” I went on. “And you -are not going to rush into folly a second time—a -greater folly. For—you do not love him—and you will -care for me. You are right, we can’t discuss him—you -and him. But we can, and must, discuss you and me.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not see you again,” said she, looking at me -with tranquil eyes that would have daunted me had I -not known her so well, understood her so well—which is -only another way of saying, had I not loved her so well.</p> - -<p>“Why have you been seeing me day after day, -when you knew that I loved you——”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[366]</span>“I did not know it,” replied she. “I did not think -I could move you in the least—beyond a friendly liking.”</p> - -<p>An inflection in her voice made me suddenly realize. -“You came because it made you happy to come!” I -cried triumphantly. I caught her hand. “You do -care, Mary!”</p> - -<p>She drew her hand away resolutely. “I shall keep -my promise,” she said coldly. “I wish to hear no -more.”</p> - -<p>“You will not keep your promise. If necessary -I’ll go to him and tell him—and he’ll release you.”</p> - -<p>She gave me a look that withered. “You—do a -cowardly thing like that!”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I. “But <i>you</i> will ask him to release -you. You have no right to marry him. And I—I -love you—and must live my life with you, or—I can -think of nothing more futile and empty than life without -you. And your life—would it not be futile and -empty, Mary, if you tried to live it without me, when -we might have been together? Together!—you and I! -Mary, my love!”</p> - -<p>“Why do you say those things, Godfrey?” she -cried passionately. “To make me wretched? To -make it harder for me to do what I must?”</p> - -<p>“To make it impossible for you to do what you -must not. Marry a man you don’t love—marry him -when you love another! You’d be doing him the worst -possible injury. No matter how much he loves you, he -can recover from the blow of losing you. But the day -to day horror of such a loveless marriage would destroy -you both. He is a sensitive man. He would feel<span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[367]</span> -it, in spite of all your efforts to pretend. You—pretend! -You could not do it.”</p> - -<p>“After what has passed between him and me—the -promises we’ve exchanged—the plans we’ve made—there -is no going back! I don’t wish to go back. I——”</p> - -<p>“Mary—I love you!” I cried. “I love you—and -you love me. That’s the wall between you and any other -man, between me and any other woman.”</p> - -<p>She had waved to a passing taxi. It swept into the -edge of the drive. She opened the door. “You are -not coming with me,” she said. “And I shall not see -you again.”</p> - -<p>I laid my hand on her arm and forced her to meet -my gaze. “You are hysterical now,” I said. “But -you will be calm, and——”</p> - -<p>She gave me a cold smile—it would have deceived -those who do not understand the temperaments that can -conceal themselves. “I am perfectly calm, I assure -you,” said she.</p> - -<p>“As you were the first time we ever met,” said I. -“You’ve no right to marry any man but me, Mary. -If you did you’d be wronging yourself—me—him most -of all. That is the truth, and you will see it.”</p> - -<p>She dragged her arm away, burst into violent sobs, -sank upon the seat of the cab. I hesitated—obeyed a -right instinct, closed the door, gave her address to the -ignoring chauffeur, stood watching the cab whisk away. -I was shaking from head to foot. But I had no fear -for the outcome. I knew that I had won—that <i>we</i> had -won.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[368]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">XI</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Rossiter</span>—I believe I have mentioned the name of -my new secretary—was lying in wait for me at the hotel -entrance. He read me a telegram from Margot: Edna -was ill, was not expected to live, begged me to come at -once.</p> - -<p>I wrote to Mary Kirkwood—a brief repetition of -what I had said to her—“of what I know both your -intelligence and your heart are saying to you, dear.” I -told her that Edna was desperately ill and had sent for -me, and that I should be back as soon as I could get -away. I went on to say many things such as a man -deeply in love always says. No doubt it was a commonplace -letter, as sincere love letters are apt to be; but -because it was from my heart I felt that, for all the -shortcomings, it would go to her heart. I admit I am -not a facile love-maker. I have had little practice. -And I suspect, those who are facile at love-making have -got their facility by making love speeches so often when -they were not in earnest that they cannot but have lost -all capacity to be in earnest.</p> - -<p>Toward noon the next day Rossiter and I and my -valet were set down at the little station of Kesson Wells, -half an hour out from London in Surrey. We were in -the midst of about as beautiful a country us I have seen. -I am a narrow enough patriot not to take the most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[369]</span> -favorable view of things foreign. But I must admit -that no other countryside can give one the sense of sheer -loveliness that one gets in certain parts of England. -I am glad we have nothing like it at home; for to have it -means rainy weather most of the time, and serf labor, -and landlord selfishly indifferent to the misery of the -poor human creatures he works and robs. Still, I try -to forget the way it came in the joy of the thing itself—as -you, gentle reader, forget the suffering and death of -the animals that make the artistic and delicious course -dinners you eat.</p> - -<p>We were received with much ceremony at the station. -My money was being exercised by those who knew -how to do it. After a drive between perfumed and blossoming -hedgerows and over a road as smooth and clean -as a floor we came to Garton Hall, the place my son-in-law -had leased until his new house should be ready. -It was a modern house, as I noted with relief when we -were still afar off, and while not large, was a most satisfactory -embodiment of that often misused and often -misunderstood word comfort. To live in the luxurious -yet comfortable comfort obtainable in England only—indoors, -in its steam-heated or Americanized portions—one -must have English servants. I am glad we do not -breed English servants in America; I am glad that when -they are imported they soon cease to be the models of -menial perfection they are at home. But when I am in -England I revel in the English servant. To find him -at his best you must see him serving in the establishment -of a great noble. And my son-in-law was that; and the -establishment over which Margot presided, but with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_370">[370]</span> -which she was not permitted to interfere in the smallest -detail because of her utter ignorance of all the “vulgarities” -of life, as became a true lady of our quaint -American brand—the establishment was a combination -of the best of the city with the best of the country, a -skillful mingling of the most attractive features of home, -club, and hotel.</p> - -<p>My first question at the station had, of course, been -as to Mrs. Loring. I was assured that her ladyship’s -mother was somewhat better, but still awaiting the dangerous -crisis of the fever. Margot, not a whit less girlish -for her maternity, met me in the doorway, and had -the nurse there with the boy—the Earl of Gorse. They -said he looked like me—and he did, though I do not -believe they thought so. Why should they say it? I -was still a young man and might marry again. I fancy -the same prudent instinct prompted them to give him -Godfrey as one of his four or five names. Why do I -think they did not believe he looked like me? Because -all of them were ashamed of everything American. In -the frequent quarrels between Margot and Hugh, he -never failed to use the shaft that would surely pierce -the heart of her vanity and rankle there—her low American -birth, in such ghastly and grotesque contrast to the -illustrious descent of her husband. She had an acid -tongue when it came to quarreling; she could hurl taunts -about his shifts to keep up appearances before he met -her that made ugly and painful marks on his hide. She -had discovered, probably by gossiping with some traitor -servant, that he had been flouted by a rich English girl -for a chauffeur—and you may be sure she put it to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_371">[371]</span> -good use. But nothing she could say made him quiver -as she quivered when he opened out on the subject of -those “filthy bounders in the States.”</p> - -<p>Do not imagine, gentle reader, that my daughter -was unhappily married. She would not have exchanged -places with anyone but the wife of a duke; and Hugh—well, -he needed the money. Nor should you think that -they lived unhappily together. They saw little of each -other alone; and in public they were as smiling and -amiable with each other as—perhaps as you and your -husband.</p> - -<p>A fine baby was the Earl of Gorse—one who in a -decent environment would have grown up a sensible, -useful person. But hardly, I feared, when he was already -living in his own separate apartment, with his -name—“The Earl of Gorse”—on a card beside the -door, and with all the servants, including his mother, -treating him as if he were of superior clay. This when -he barely had his sight. They say a baby learns the -utility of bawling at about three days old; I should say -the germ of snobbishness would get to work very soon -thereafter.</p> - -<p>You are waiting to hear what was the matter with -Edna. No, it was not a fake illness to draw me within -reach for some further trimming. She had indeed fallen -dangerously ill—did not expect to live when Margot -telegraphed me. It was an intestinal fever brought on -by the excesses of the London season. I wonder when -the biographers, poets, playwrights, novelists, and other -gentry who give us the annals of the race will catch up -with the progress of science? How long will it be before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_372">[372]</span> -they stop telling us of germ and filth diseases as -if they were the romantic physical expressions of soul -states? There was a time when such blunders were excusable. -Now, science has shown us that they are so -much twaddle. So, gentle reader, I cannot gratify your -taste for humbug and moonshine by telling you that -Edna was stricken of remorse or of overjoy or of secret -grief or of any other soul state whatever. The doctor -bosh was, of course, nervous exhaustion. It always is -if the patient is above the working class. The truth -was that she fell ill, even as you and I. She ate and -drank too much, both at and between meals, and did -not take proper care of herself in any way. She wore -dresses that were nearly nothing in cold carriages and -draughty rooms, when she was laden with undigested -food. Vulgar—isn’t it? Revolting for me to speak -thus of a lady? But I am trying to tell the truth, -gentle reader, not to increase your stock of slop and -lies which you call “culture.” And if a lady will put -herself in such a condition, why should it not be spoken -of? Why go on lying about these things, and encouraging -people to attribute to sensitive nerves and souls the -consequences of gluttony, ignorance, and neglect?</p> - -<p>I am not criticising Edna for getting into such an -internal physical state that a pestilence began to rage -within her. The most intelligent of us is only too foolish -and ignorant in these matters, thanks to stupid education -from childhood up. And she has the added excuse -of having been exposed to the temptations of a -London season. She fell; it is hardly in human nature -not to fall.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_373">[373]</span>You have been through a London season? It is a -mad chase from food to food. You rise and hastily -swallow a heavy English breakfast. You ride in the -Row a while, ride toward a lunch table—and an English -lunch, especially in the season, means a bigger dinner -than any Frenchman or other highly civilized person -ever willingly sat down to. Hardly is this long lunch -over before it is time for tea—which means not merely -tea, but toast, and sandwiches, and hot muffins, and -many kinds of heavy cake, and often fruit or jam. Tea -is to give you an appetite for the dinner that follows—and -what a dinner! One rich, heavy course upon another, -with drenchings of wine and a poisonous liqueur -afterward. You sit about until this has settled a bit, -then—on to supper! Not so formidable a meal as the -dinner, but still what any reasonable person would call -a square meal. Then to bed? By no means. On to a -ball, where you eat and drink in desultory fashion until -late supper is served. You roll heavily home to sleep. -But hardly have your eyes closed when you are roused to -eat again. It is breakfast time, and another day of -stuffing has begun.</p> - -<p>Starvation, they tell me, is one of the regular causes -of death in London. But that is in the East End. In -the West End—and you, gentle reader, are interested -only in that section—death, I’ll wager, reaps twenty -from overfeeding to one he gets in the East End through -underfeeding. Famine is a dreadful thing. But how -characteristic of the shallowness of human beings it is -that you can make a poetic horror out of famine, when -no one would listen while you told the far more horrible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_374">[374]</span> -truth of the frightful ravages of overfeeding, chief -cause of all the diseases that torture and twist the human -body, aging and killing it prematurely.</p> - -<p>Edna had been for many years most cautiously careful -of her health. She loved her youth, her beautiful -body. She fought against her natural fondness for -food and wine. I fancy that, for this first season after -freedom she relaxed her rules, and turned herself loose to -“celebrate.” I know she must have had something of -this sort in mind, because her French maid—I could not -talk with the Italian—told me that madame had arranged -an elaborate programme of “cures” on the Continent -after the season. “And they were to be serious -cures,” said she.</p> - -<p>Her illness took such a course of ups and downs, with -death always hovering, that it was impossible for me to -leave. I wrote Mary; I got no reply. I sent Rossiter -to Paris; he reported that Mrs. Armstrong and Mrs. -Kirkwood had left for the country, but that he could -get no address.</p> - -<p>You probably picture me as scarcely able to restrain -myself from acting like a madman. How little you -know of me! Do you think I could have achieved my -solid success before I reached forty-five years if I had -been one of the little people who fret and fume against -the inevitable? All men who amount to anything are -violent men. Jesus, the model of serenity and patience, -scourged the money changers from the temple. Washington, -one more great exemplar of the majesty of repose, -swore like a lunatic at the battle of Monmouth. -These great ones simply had in the highest form the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_375">[375]</span> -virtues that make for success in every department -of leadership. Certainly, I am a violent man; but I -have rarely been foolish enough to go crazy to no -purpose.</p> - -<p>What could I do but wait? And over that beautiful, -quiet country place floated the black cormorant, -with wings outspread and hollow, burning eyes bent -eagerly downward. I waited, not in fury, but oppressed -by a deep melancholy. For the first time in my life I -was thinking seriously of death. To any man no decisive -event of life is so absolutely unimportant as his -own death. I never have wasted, and never shall waste, -a moment in thinking of my death. It may concern -others, but how does it concern me? When it comes I -shall not be there. The death of another, however—that -is cause for reflection, for sadness. I knew, as did -no one else, how intensely Edna loved life, how in her -own way of strain and struggle she enjoyed it. And to -me it was pitiful, this spectacle of her sudden arrest, her -sudden mortal peril, as she was about to achieve the -summit of her ambition.</p> - -<p>I wondered as to Frascatoni. I pictured him waiting, -with those tranquil, weary eyes already looking -about for another means to his aim of large fortune -should this means fail. There I misjudged him; for, -one day as I stood in a balcony overlooking the drive he -came rushing up in a motor, and my first glance at his -haggard face told me that he loved her. In a way it is -small compliment to a woman to be loved by the fortune-hunting -sort of man; for, he does not release himself -until he has the permit of basest self-interest. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_376">[376]</span> -Frascatoni, having released himself, had fallen in love -with all the frenzy of his super-refined, passionately -imaginative nature.</p> - -<p>After a few minutes he drove away. I do not know -what occurred—naturally, they would not speak of his -call and I did not ask questions. I can imagine, however. -She seemed better that day, and he must have -gone away reassured. He was sending, every morning, -enormous quantities of flowers; such skill and taste -showed in the arranging that I am sure it was not the -usual meaningless performance of rich people, who are -always trying to make money-spending serve instead of -thoughtful and delicate attention.</p> - -<p>Nearly a month dragged along before she was able -to see me. As I have explained, her beauty was not -dependent upon evanescent charms of contour and coloring, -but was securely founded in the structure of her -head and face and body. So, I saw lying weakly in the -bed an emaciated but lovely Edna. Instantly, on sight -of her, there came flooding back to me the memory of -the birth of Margot, our first child—how Edna had -looked when they let me go into the humble, almost -squalid little bedroom in the flat of which we were so -vain. She was looking exactly so in this bed of state, -in this magnificent room with the evidences of wealth -and rank and fashion on every side. She smiled faintly; -one of the slim weak hands lying upon the cream-white -silk coverlet moved. I bent and kissed it.</p> - -<p>“Thank you for being here,” she murmured, tears -in her eyes. Her lips could scarcely utter the words.</p> - -<p>“You must not speak, your ladyship,” warned the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_377">[377]</span> -nurse. To flatter Americans and to give themselves the -comfortable feeling of gratified snobbishness English -servants address us—or rather our women—as if we had -titles.</p> - -<p>“You are to get well rapidly now,” I said.</p> - -<p>“You’ll stay until I can talk to you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said—what else could I say?</p> - -<p>They motioned me away. I had committed myself -to several weeks more of that futile monotony—and I no -longer had the restraint of the sense that she might die -at any moment.</p> - -<p>Even had I been willing to break my promise I could -not have done so; for she would have me in every morning -and every afternoon to look at me, and they told -me that if I were not there to reassure her, it would -undoubtedly cause a change for the worse. I stayed -on and wrote to Mary Kirkwood—all the time with the -fear that my letters were not reaching her, but also -with the unshakable conviction that she was mine. You -smile at this as proof of my colossal vanity. Well, your -smile convicts you of never having loved. The essence -of love is congeniality. Appetite is the essence of passion—which, -therefore, has no sense of or especial desire -for mutuality. Passion is as common as any other -physical appetite. Love is as rare as are souls generous -enough to experience or to inspire it. The essence of -love is congeniality—and I <i>knew</i> there was a sympathy -and understanding between me and Mary Kirkwood that -made us lovers for all time.</p> - -<p>There came a day—how it burned into my memory!—when -Edna was well enough to talk with me. Several<span class="pagenum" id="Page_378">[378]</span> -days before and I saw that it was not far away, and I -awaited it with fierce impatience; she would tell me -why she had sent for me and I should be free to go. It -was one of those soft gray days of alternating rain -and sun that are the specialty of the British climate. -Edna, with flowers everywhere in her sitting room, was -half reclining in an invalid chair, all manner of rich, -delicate silk and lace assistants to comfort, luxury and -beauty adorning her or forming background for her -lovely face and head. I do not think there is a detail -of the room or of her appearance that I could not -reproduce, though at the time I was unaware of anything -but her voice—her words.</p> - -<p>I entered, seated myself in the broad low window -opposite her. She looked at me a long time, a strange -soft expression in her weary eyes—an expression that -disquieted me. At last she said:</p> - -<p>“It is so good to be getting well.”</p> - -<p>“And you are getting well rapidly,” I said. “You -have a wonderful constitution.”</p> - -<p>“You are glad I am better, Godfrey?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “What a foolish question.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know,” said she. “I feared— I have -acted <i>so</i> badly toward you.”</p> - -<p>“No indeed,” replied I. “Don’t worry about those -things. I hope you feel as friendly toward me as I do -toward you.”</p> - -<p>“But you have always been good to me—even when -I haven’t deserved it.”</p> - -<p>This was most puzzling. Said I vaguely, “I guess -we’ve both done the best we could. Do you want to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_379">[379]</span> -tell me to-day why you sent for me? Or don’t you feel -strong enough?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I wish to tell you to-day. But—it isn’t -easy to say. I’m very proud, Godfrey—and when I’ve -been in the wrong it’s hard for me to admit.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come now, Edna,” said I soothingly. “Let’s -not rake up the past. It’s finished—and it has left no -hard feeling—at least not in me. Don’t think of anything -but of getting well.”</p> - -<p>She lay gazing out into the gentle rain with the -sunshine glistening upon it. A few large tears rolled -down her cheeks.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing to be unhappy about,” said I. -“You are far on the way to health. You are as lovely -as ever. And you will get everything you want.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s so hard to tell you!” she sighed.</p> - -<p>“Then don’t,” I urged. “If there’s anything I -can do for you, let me know. I’ll be glad to do it.”</p> - -<p>She covered her eyes with her thin, beautiful hand. -“Love me—love me, Godfrey—as you used to,” she -sobbed.</p> - -<p>I was dumbfounded. It seemed to me I could not -have heard aright. I stared at her until she lowered -her hand and looked at me. Then I hastily glanced -away.</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted,” she went on. -“I want you to take me back. That was why I sent -for you.”</p> - -<p>I puzzled over this. Was she still out of her mind? -Or was there some other and sane—and extremely practical—reason -behind this strange turn?—for I could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_380">[380]</span> -not for an instant imagine she was in sane and sober -earnest.</p> - -<p>“You don’t believe me!” she cried. “No wonder. -But it’s so, Godfrey. I want your love—I want <i>you</i>. -Won’t you—won’t you—take me—back?”</p> - -<p>Her voice sounded pitifully sick and weak; and when -I looked at her I could not but see that to refuse to -humor her would be to endanger her life. I said:</p> - -<p>“Edna, this is an utter surprise for me—about the -last thing I expected. I can’t grasp it—so suddenly. -I—I— Do you really mean it?”</p> - -<p>“I really mean it, dear,” she said earnestly.</p> - -<p>It was evident she, in her secret heart, was taking it -for granted that her news would be welcome to me; -that all she had to do in order to win me back as her -devoted, enslaved husband was to announce her willingness -to come. I have often marveled at this peculiar -vanity of women—their deep, abiding belief in the power -of their own charms—the all but impossibility of a -man’s ever convincing a woman that he does not love -her. They say hope is the hardiest of human emotions. -I doubt it. I think vanity, especially the sex vanity -both of men and of women, is far and away hardier -than even hope. I saw she was assuming I would be -delighted, deeply grateful, ardently responsive as soon -as I should grasp the dazzling glad tidings. And she -so ill and weak that I dared not speak at all frankly -to her.</p> - -<p>She stretched out her hand for mine. I slowly took -it, held it listlessly. I did not know what to do—what -to say.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_381">[381]</span>“It is so good to have you again, dear,” she murmured. -“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand,” I muttered, dropping her -hand and standing up to gaze out over the gardens. -“I am stunned.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been cruel to you,” she said with gracious -humility. “Can you ever forgive me?”</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing to forgive. But—” There I -halted.</p> - -<p>“I’ll make up for it, dear,” she went on, sweetly -gracious. “I’m not surprised that you are stunned. -You didn’t realize how I loved you. I didn’t -myself. I couldn’t believe at first when I found -out.”</p> - -<p>“You are not strong enough to talk about these -things to-day,” said I. “We’ll wait until——”</p> - -<p>She interrupted my hesitating speech with a laugh -full of gentle gayety. “You’re quite wrong,” said she. -“I’m not out of my mind. I mean it, dear—and more. -Oh, we shall be <i>so</i> happy! You’ve been far too modest -about yourself. You don’t appreciate what a fascinating -man you are.”</p> - -<p>I’m sure I reddened violently. I sat, rose, sat again. -“You’ve given me the shock of my life,” said I, with -an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll have to think this over.” -I rose.</p> - -<p>“No—don’t go yet,” said she, with the graciousness -of a princess granting a longer interview. “Let -me tell you all about it.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-day,” I pleaded. “You must be careful. -You mustn’t overtax yourself.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_382">[382]</span>“Oh, but <i>this</i> does me good. Sit near me, Godfrey, -and hold my hand while I tell you.”</p> - -<p>I felt like one closeted with an insane person and -compelled to humor his caprices. I obediently shifted -to a seat near her and took her hand.</p> - -<p>“You could never guess how it came about,” she -went on.</p> - -<p>As she was looking inquiringly at me, I said, “No.”</p> - -<p>“It was very strange. For the first few weeks after -the divorce—no, not the divorce—but the decree—for -it isn’t a divorce yet, thank God!—for the first weeks -I was happy—or thought I was. I went early and late. -I had never been so gay. I acted like a girl just -launched in society. I was in ecstasies over my freedom. -Do you mind, dear? Does it hurt you for me -to say these things?”</p> - -<p>“No—no,” said I. “Go on.”</p> - -<p>“How queer you are! But I suppose you are dazed, -poor dear. Never mind! When I am better—stronger, -I’ll soon convince you.” And she nodded and smiled -at me. “Poor dear! How cruel I have been!”</p> - -<p>“Yes—we’ll wait till you are stronger,” stammered -I, making a move to rise.</p> - -<p>“But I must tell you how it came about,” she said, -detaining me. “All of a sudden—when I was at my -gayest—I began to feel strange and sad—to dislike -everyone and everything about me.”</p> - -<p>“It was the illness working in you,” said I.</p> - -<p>She gave the smile of gentle tolerance with which -she received my attempts at humor when she was in an -amiable mood. “How like you that is! But it wasn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_383">[383]</span> -the illness at all. It was my inmost heart striving to -force open its door and reveal its secret. Do be a little -romantic, this once, dear.”</p> - -<p>“Well—and then?”</p> - -<p>“Then—a paragraph in one of the society papers. -Some one sent it to me anonymously. Was it you, -dear?—and did you do it to make me jealous?”</p> - -<p>She spoke as one who suddenly sees straight into a -secret. “I didn’t,” said I hastily. “It never entered -my head to think you cared a rap about me.”</p> - -<p>“Now, don’t tease me, Godfrey, dear. You must -have been making all sorts of plans to win me back.”</p> - -<p>“You read the item in the paper?” suggested I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—I must finish. I read it. And at first -I shrugged my shoulders and said to myself I didn’t -in the least care. But I couldn’t get the thing out of -mind. Godfrey, I had always been too sure of you. -You never seemed to be a single tiny bit interested in -other women. So the thought of you and another -woman had not once come to me. That item put it -there. You—<i>my</i> husband—<i>my</i> Godfrey and another -woman! It was like touching a match to powder. I -went mad. I——”</p> - -<p>She was sitting up, her eyes wild, her voice trembling. -“You must not excite yourself, Edna,” I said.</p> - -<p>“I went mad,” she repeated, so interested in her -emotions that she probably did not hear me. “I rushed -down to Margot. I fell ill. I made her telegraph for -you. Oh, how I suffered until I knew you were here. -If you hadn’t come right away I’d have cabled to my -lawyer in New York to have the divorce set aside—or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_384">[384]</span> -whatever they do. I can have it set aside any time up -to the end of the six months, can’t I?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” admitted I, though her tone of positive -knowledge made my reply superfluous.</p> - -<p>She seemed instinctively to feel a suspicion—an -explanation of her amazing about-face—that was slowly -gathering in my bewildered mind. She drew from the -folds of her negligee a note and handed it to me. She -said:</p> - -<p>“I haven’t confessed the worst I had done. Read -that.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said I. “I don’t wish to know.”</p> - -<p>“But I wish you to know,” insisted she. “There -mustn’t be anything dark between us.”</p> - -<p>I reluctantly opened the note and read. It was -from Prince Frascatoni—not the cold bid for a break -that my suspicion expected but a passionate appeal to -her not to break their engagement and throw him over. -I could by no reach of the imagination picture that -calm, weary-eyed man of the world writing those lines—which -shows how ill men understand each other where -women are concerned.</p> - -<p>“He sent me that note the day I came here,” said -she. “I did not answer it.” Her tone was supreme -indifference—the peculiar cruelty of woman toward -man when she does not care.</p> - -<p>“You were engaged to him?” said I—because I -could think of nothing else to say.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said she. Then with the chaste pride of -the “good” woman, “But not until after the decree -was granted. He would have declared himself in New<span class="pagenum" id="Page_385">[385]</span> -York, but I wouldn’t permit <i>that</i>. At least, Godfrey, -I never forgot with other men that I was your wife—or -let them forget it. You believe me?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure of it,” said I.</p> - -<p>She gazed dreamily into vacancy. “To think,” she -mused, “that I imagined I could marry him—<i>any</i> man! -How little a woman knows her own heart. I always loved -you. Godfrey, I don’t believe there is any such thing -as divorce—not for a good woman. When she gives -herself”—in a dreamy, musical voice, with a tender -pressure of my hand—“it is for time and for eternity.”</p> - -<p>Never in all my life had I so welcomed anyone as I -welcomed the interrupting nurse. I felt during the -whole interview that I was under a strain; until I was -in the open air and alone I did not realize how terrific -the strain. I walked—on and on, like a madman—vaulting -gates and fences, scrambling over hedges, plowing -through gardens, leaping brooks—on and on, hour -after hour. What should I do? What <i>could</i> I do? -Nothing but wait until she was out of danger, wait and -study away at this incredible, impossible freak of hers—try -to fathom it, if it was not the vagary of a diseased -mind. I wished to believe it that, but I could not. -There was nothing of insanity in her manner, and from -beginning to end her story was coherent and plausible. -Plausible, but not believable; for I had no more vanity -about her loving me than has the next man when he -does not want the love offered him and finds it inconvenient -to credit, and so is in the frame of mind to see -calmly and clearly.</p> - -<p>I wandered so far that I had to hire a conveyance at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_386">[386]</span> -some village at which I halted toward nightfall. As -soon as I was at the house I ordered my valet to pack, -and wrote Edna a note saying that neglected business -compelled me to bolt for London. “But I’ll be back,” I -wrote, at the command of human decency. “I feel that -I can go, as you are almost well.” Half an hour later -I was in the train for London.</p> - -<p>A letter, feebly scrawled, came from her the next day -but one—a brief loving note, saying that she understood -and that I knew how eagerly she was looking forward -to my return—“but don’t worry, dearest, about me. I -shall soon be well, now that my conscience is clear and -all is peace and love between us. I know how you hate -to write letters, but you will telegraph me every day.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>How I got through those next few weeks I cannot -tell. I had no sense of the reality of the world about me -or of my own thoughts and actions. Every once in a -while—sometimes when I was talking with the men whose -company I sought, again when I was alone in bed and -would start abruptly from sleep—I pinched myself or -struck myself violently to see if I was awake. Edna’s -letters were daily and long. I read them, stared at them, -felt less certain than ever of my sanity or of my being -awake. I sent her an occasional telegram, dictated to -Rossiter—a vague sentence of congratulation on her -better health or something of that kind. Soon this formality -degenerated to a request to Rossiter: “And telegraph -Mrs. Loring.” Or he would say, “Shall I send -Mrs. Loring a telegram?” and I would reply, “Yes—do -please.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_387">[387]</span>It was obviously necessary that I should not see her -before she was well enough to be talked to frankly. I -invented excuses for staying away until my ability in -that direction gave out. Then Rossiter, best of secretaries, -divining my plight, came to the rescue. I gave -him a free hand. He went too far, created in her predisposed -mind the illusion that I was champing with impatience -at the business that persisted in keeping me -away from her. I do not blame him; he took the only -possible course.</p> - -<p>At last she was completely restored. The doctors -and nurses could find no pretext for lingering, and that -in itself was proof positive of her health and strength. -She was having her meals with the family, was attending -to her correspondence, was alarmed because she was taking -on flesh so rapidly. She began offering to join me -in London. When she wrote that she was starting the -next day I telegraphed her not to come; and, after four -more days of delay on various excuses, I went down. I -should have liked to postpone this interview a week or -ten days. Again I see you smiling at me, posing as -madly in love with Mary Kirkwood yet able to put off -the joy of being free to go to her. But, gentle reader, -you must not forget that I had first to deal with Edna. -And, from what you have learned of her, do you think -I was wise or foolish to wish to meet her only when she -could not possibly prevent candor by pleading a remnant -of invalidism?</p> - -<p>She was charmingly dressed to receive me, rushed -forward before them all and flung her arms around my -neck in a graceful, effusive fashion she had learned on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_388">[388]</span> -the Continent. I received the shock as calmly as I could, -noting the awkwardly concealed surprise of Margot and -Hugh. We had lunch; she did most of the talking—a -gay, happy-hearted rattling—the natural expression of -a woman with not a care in the world. And I— In -spite of myself I felt like an executioner come to assassinate -an unsuspicious and innocent victim. For the -best side of her was to the fore, and all the unpleasant -traits were so thoroughly concealed that they seemed to -have been burned up in that terrible fever. I <i>knew</i> -they were still there, but I could not <i>feel</i> it.</p> - -<p>When we were alone in her sitting room, she said:</p> - -<p>“Where’s your valet and your luggage?”</p> - -<p>“In London,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, they’re coming on a later train.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I, seizing this excellent opportunity. -“I’m going back this afternoon.”</p> - -<p>She gave a cry of dismay. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed. -“Isn’t it a shame!” Then, rushing to the -bell, “I’ll have my things got ready. I’ll go back with -you. You shan’t be left alone, dearest.”</p> - -<p>I seated myself. “Don’t ring,” I said. “Wait till -we’ve talked the matter over.”</p> - -<p>“I see you can’t really believe—even yet,” cried -she laughingly. “I must convince you.” And she rang -the bell.</p> - -<p>“When your maid comes, send her away,” said I. -“Don’t order her to pack. You can’t go with me.”</p> - -<p>She looked at me anxiously. “How solemn you -are!” she cried. “Has something gone wrong in that -business?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_389">[389]</span>“Nothing,” said I. The maid came, was sent away. -Edna moved toward me, would have sat in my lap or on -the arm of my chair had I not prevented her by rising -on the pretext of lighting a cigarette.</p> - -<p>“You are very—very—strange,” said she. Then advancing -toward me and gazing into my face, “Godfrey, -there wasn’t any truth in that item—was there?” She -looked like a sweet, lovely slip of a girl, all tenderness -and sincerity.</p> - -<p>“I’ve come to discuss our affairs—not malicious -newspaper gossip,” said I, fighting for my usual manner -of good-humored raillery. “First, tell me what is -the meaning of this outburst of affection for me? Aren’t -you satisfied with the settlements?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. -Then with an air of earnestness that certainly was convincing, -she said: “Can’t you <i>feel</i> that I love you?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I -<i>know</i> that you care nothing about me. So let’s talk business -as we always have.”</p> - -<p>She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not -show the least excitement. She seated herself and, fixing -upon me a look which I can only describe as tenacious, -she said:</p> - -<p>“Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I -shall not give you up.”</p> - -<p>My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I -am always nervous about crossing a bridge until my foot -touches it; thenceforth I am too busy crossing to bother -about myself. “Well—what do you propose?” said I.</p> - -<p>“To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_390">[390]</span> -sorry I am for the way I have acted, to show you by -thinking only of making you happy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes? And what will you <i>do</i> to make me -happy?”</p> - -<p>“Look after your comfort—your home, Godfrey.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” -said I. “You know only how to make a house attractive -to other people. You are far too fine for a private -housekeeper.”</p> - -<p>“I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things -are not difficult.”</p> - -<p>I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity -to learn the most difficult of all the arts. -“You will practice on me, eh? Thank you—but no. -You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only -harass yourself and deprive me of comfort—and for -years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than you imagine. -You are set in your ways, I in mine.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. -“You must be lonely, Godfrey. You need companionship—sympathy. -I can give it to you now—for, I am -awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.”</p> - -<p>I shook my head. “That sounds well, but what -does it <i>mean</i>? Next door to nothing, my friend. You -and I are not interested in the same things. We’ve -nothing to talk about. I don’t know the things you -know—the social, the fashionable side of life. You -don’t know my side of life—and you couldn’t and -wouldn’t learn enough to interest me. Any forced interest -you might give would bore me. Pardon my -frankness, but this is no time for polite falsehoods.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_391">[391]</span> -The fact is we’ve outgrown each other. When we look -out of our eyes, each of us sees an entirely different -world; and neither of us cares about or even believes in -the other’s world. We talk, only to irritate. We are -absolutely and finally apart. It would be impossible -for us to live together.”</p> - -<p>She waited until I finished. I doubt if she listened. -It was her habit not to listen to what she did not wish -to hear. “Godfrey—Godfrey!” she cried, battling -with the sobs that rose, perhaps in spite of her. “Do -I mean nothing to you—I who have been everything to -you? Does the word wife mean nothing to you?”</p> - -<p>“You mean nothing to me,” replied I. “And I -mean nothing to you. Let us not pretend to deceive -ourselves.”</p> - -<p>“But you did care about me once,” she pleaded. -“I am not old and faded. I still have all the charms -I used to have—yes, and more. Isn’t that so, dear?”</p> - -<p>“You are more beautiful than you ever were,” said -I. “But—you’ve gotten me out of the habit of you. -And I couldn’t go back to it if I would.”</p> - -<p>She buried her face in her hands and wept.</p> - -<p>“At your old tricks,” said I impatiently. “It has -always been your way to try to make me seem in the -wrong. As a matter of fact, you lost years ago—lost -before I did—all interest and taste for our life together. -It was you who ended our married life, not I.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it was all my fault,” she sobbed. “Forgive -me, dear. Take me back. Don’t cast me off. I’ll be -whatever you say—do whatever you wish. Only take -me back!”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_392">[392]</span>I could not make an inch of progress toward the -real motive behind this obviously sincere plea. As I -sat silent, looking at her and puzzling, she began to -hope that she had moved me. No—rather, she began -to feel stronger in her deep rooted conviction that at -bottom I loved her and had never wavered. She came -across the room, dropped to her knees beside my chair -and hid her face in my lap. Why is it that passion -once extinguished can never light again? As she knelt -there I appreciated all her physical charms; but I was -appreciative with that critical calmness which is the -absence of all feeling. I laid my hand on hers.</p> - -<p>“Edna,” I said, “what <i>is</i> the meaning of this?”</p> - -<p>“I am telling you the truth, Godfrey,” replied she, -lifting her gold-brown eyes to gaze at me. “As God -is my judge, I am telling you the truth.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt you think you are,” said I diplomatically. -“But your good sense must tell you that -there’s something wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—with you,” was her answer in a sad tone. -“I hoped we could begin to be happy at once. I see -now that I’ve got to win you back.”</p> - -<p>I concealed my panic behind an amused laugh. “I -suppose I’ve misled you into forming this poor estimate -of my intelligence where you are concerned,” said I. -“You have thought all these years that, because I said -nothing, I did not understand. The truth is, for many -years I have understood you thoroughly, Edna. You -doubt it. You say to yourself, ‘If he had understood, -he would have been furious and would not have allowed -me to use him as a mere pocketbook.’”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_393">[393]</span>Up she started, wounded to the quick. “Godfrey!” -she cried. “How you hurt! Oh, my dear—spare -me. If you had such a low opinion of me, don’t -tell me about it. Perhaps I deserve your contempt. -God knows, I thought I was doing right. Don’t be -harsh with me, dearest. I am only a woman, after all.”</p> - -<p>I shook my head smilingly. “Drop it,” said I. -“You are entirely too strong a person to be able to -hide behind a plea of weakness. I have let you use me -for your own selfish pleasure all these years because I -did not especially care. Also, it kept you away from -me—which was highly agreeable to us both.”</p> - -<p>The anguish in her eyes, whether it was genuine -or not, looked so sincere that I avoided her gaze.</p> - -<p>“But,” I went on, “I’m no longer in the mood to -be used. You got through with me, as you thought, -and divorced me and prepared to marry a man more -to your liking——”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey—you needn’t be jealous of him—of anyone!”</p> - -<p>I made a gesture of resigned despair. Jealous! -Her vanity rampant. It had seized upon an insignificant -phrase and had found what it was eagerly looking -for. “I am not jealous of him,” said I, “though it -would be useless for me to try to convince you. Still, -I repeat—I am not jealous. I was merely saying that -you have cast me off, that I choose to regard your -action as final, that I shall not let you fasten on me -again simply because your selfishness and vanity happen -to discover a new value in me. Do I make my position -clear?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_394">[394]</span>“I see I can’t convince you of what’s in my heart,” -said she with sweet resignation. “I had no right to -expect it—to hope for it. But my life will convince -you, Godfrey. I shall win you back!”</p> - -<p>I retained my appearance of calmness. But I was -the reverse of calm. I appreciated that she had me -in her power. So far as I could judge, she was not -after more money, but was under the spell of some form -of hysteria that gave her the delusion of an actual desire -to love me and to be loved by me. As she had a -fortune in her own right, and a large one, I was without -means of controlling her. I could not compel her -to stick to her bargain and make the divorce legally -final; and, even if I had been so disposed I had no -ground for a divorce from her unless she should be -consenting and assisting.</p> - -<p>“If you cared for another woman, I might despair,” -she went on. “But you don’t. My heart tells -me that you don’t.”</p> - -<p>Should I tell her? I strangled the impulse as it -was born; my common sense lost no time in reminding -me of the folly of that course.</p> - -<p>“I’ll be so utterly yours, Godfrey,” she went on, -“that you’ll simply <i>have</i> to love me.”</p> - -<p>I rose. “Let’s have no more of this nonsense,” -said I. “Understand, once for all, Edna, the day -when you can use me is past—gone forever. You are -free—and so am I. We will annoy each other no -more.”</p> - -<p>She faced me, her bosom heaving, her widening eyes -scrutinizing me. And what I saw in them made me<span class="pagenum" id="Page_395">[395]</span> -quail. For there shone the arch-fiend jealousy. “Godfrey!” -she exclaimed at last. “It must be another -woman!”</p> - -<p>I laughed—not pleasantly, I imagine. “Is there no -end to your vanity?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Another woman,” she repeated dazedly. “If that -weren’t true you couldn’t treat me harshly—you would -want me back—would love me——”</p> - -<p>“If there were not another woman on earth, I would -not go back to you,” said I.</p> - -<p>But what woman would believe that of a man—especially -of one upon whom she had put her private brand? -She said in the same slow ferocious way: “Some woman -has hold of you—is getting ready to make a fool of -you.”</p> - -<p>I laughed—nervously watching her mind dart from -woman to woman of those we knew.</p> - -<p>“Ah—you can’t deceive me!” she cried. “Mary -Kirkwood! She has been stealing you away from me. -And you, a fool like all men where women are concerned, -can’t see through her.” Edna laughed wildly. “But -she has <i>me</i> to reckon with now. I’ll show her!”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Kirkwood is engaged to Hartley Beechman,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“A nobody of a novelist,” said Edna. “That’s a -mere blind. She’s after <i>you</i>. After <i>my</i> husband—the -man <i>I</i> love! We’ll see!”</p> - -<p>Again I laughed—and I am sure my counterfeit of -indifference was successful. “Have it your way,” said I. -“But the fact remains that you and I are done with each -other.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_396">[396]</span>“I shall set aside the divorce,” said she.</p> - -<p>“As you please,” replied I, lighting a cigarette and -preparing to leave the room. “If you are not content -with the terms of settlement you can have more money. -If that——”</p> - -<p>“Why <i>do</i> I love you?” cried she, all softness and -piteous appeal again. “You who are so base that you -think only of money! What weakness for me to love -you! Yet, God help me, I do—I do! Godfrey——”</p> - -<p>“I am going back to London,” said I.</p> - -<p>She stretched out her arms, and her face was a grief-stricken -appeal for mercy. “You can’t be so cruel to -me—your Edna.”</p> - -<p>I smiled mockingly at her and left the room.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_397">[397]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">XII</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I have</span> not been unaware of your anger and disgust -with me, gentle reader, during the progress of the preceding -scene. In real life—in your own life—you would -have understood such a scene. But you are not in the -habit of reading realities in books—real men, real women, -real action. Everything is there toned down, put in -what is called an artistic perspective. Well, I am not -an artist, and perhaps I have no right to express an -opinion upon matters of art. But I’ll venture. To me -art means a point of view upon life; so, I see nothing -artistic, nothing but more or less grotesque nonsense, in -an art that is not a point of view but a false view. But -to keep to Edna and myself.</p> - -<p>You think I should have been moist and mushy, -should have taken her back, should have burdened myself -for the rest of my days with her insincere and unsympathetic -personality. You are saying: “But after all -she loved him.” Even so—what does the word love mean -when used by a person of her character? It means nothing -but the narrowest, blighting selfishness. She had -for years used me without any thought for or of my -feelings, wishes, needs. When we moved into our grand -New York house she gave me as a bedroom the noisiest -room in the house, one overlooking the street where the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_398">[398]</span> -rattling of carriages, cabs, and carts and the talk and -laughter of pedestrians kept me awake until far into the -night and roused me about four in the morning—this, -when I was working with might and main all day long -and needed every moment of rest I could get. Why did -she give me that room? Because she wanted the only -available quiet room—beside her own bedroom—for a -dressing room! She said the light in the room she gave -me was unfit to dress by! I thought nothing of all this -at the time. It is characteristic of American wives to -do these things; it is characteristic of American men to -regard them as the matter of course. I cite the small -but not insignificant incident to show the minuteness of -her indifference to me. I have already given many of -the larger though perhaps less important instances, and -I could give scores, hundreds, in the same tenor. She -professed to love me at that time—and she either had or -simulated a very ardent passion. But that was not love, -was it? Love is generous, is considerate, finds its highest -pleasure of self-gratification in making the loved one -happy. Such a conception of love never entered her head—and -how many American women’s heads does it enter? -How it amuses me to watch them as they absorb everything, -give nothing, sit enthroned upon their vanities—and -then wonder and grow sulky or sour when their husbands -or lovers tire of the thankless task of loving them -and turn away—or turn them away.</p> - -<p>If Edna had awakened to genuine love, gentle outraged -reader, would she not have been overwhelmed with -shame as she looked back upon her married life? Would -she have come to me with the offer of her love as a queen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_399">[399]</span> -with the offer of her crown? She would not have indulged -in empty words; she would have tried to <i>do</i> something -by way of reparation. She would not have demanded -that she be taken back; but, feeling that she -had forfeited her rights, she would have tried to find -out whether I would consent to take her back; and if she -had found that I would not, she would have accepted her -fate as her desert.</p> - -<p>In those circumstances do you think I could have -laughed at her and remained firm? No one not a monster -could have done that.</p> - -<p>But the thing she called love was not love at all, -was merely as I described it to her—a newly discovered -way of using me after she had thought all possible use -for me exhausted. Such, gentle reader, is the simple -truth. Yet because I had intelligence enough to see the -truth and firmness enough not to be swayed by shallow -and meaningless sentimentalities, you call me hard, harsh, -cruel. One of your impulsive kindly souls would have -taken her weeping to his arms, would have begun to live -with her. And there the novel would have ended, with -you, gentle reader, all tears and thrills. For, having no -imagination, you would have been unable to picture the -few weeks of cat-and-dog life after the “happy ending,” -then the breaking apart in hatred and vindictiveness. -But this is not an “artistic” novel. It is a story -of life, a plain setting forth of actualities, in the hope -that it may enable some men and women to understand -life more clearly and to live their own lives more wisely -and perhaps less mischievously.</p> - -<p>I went to my daughter. “Margot,” said I, “your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_400">[400]</span> -mother threatens to try to stop the divorce. It is best -for both her and me that we be free. I am determined -not to live with her again, for I abominate the sort of -life she and you lead. If you will do what you can to -bring her to her senses, I will see that you don’t regret -it.”</p> - -<p>Margot rather liked me, I believe. Not as a father; -as a father I made her ashamed, like everything else -American about her. But it was a resigned kind of -shame, and she appreciated my money, my good nature -about it and my services in bringing back her marquis -and making possible her son the earl. I knew I could -count on her active sympathy; for she would vastly prefer -that her mother be the Princess Frascatoni.</p> - -<p>My mother, Mrs. Loring; my mother, the Princess -Frascatoni. Pronounce those two phrases, gentle reader, -and you will grasp my meaning.</p> - -<p>I was by no means sure she would have any influence -with her mother, even though she was now the wife of -one marquis and the mother of a marquis to be, with -about half the high British peerage as relatives. But I -was desperate, and a desperate man clutches at anything.</p> - -<p>“I think you are right, papa,” said she in her mother’s -own grave sweet way. “You and mamma never -have been suited to each other. Besides, I don’t want her -away off in America where I never expect to be again. -Some of the girls who have married here like to go back -there and receive the flattery and the homage. But it -seems cheap to me. I’m sure I don’t care what the -Americans think of me. I’m not snobbish, as I used -to be. I am English now—loyal English to the core.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_401">[401]</span>“This is the place for your mother, too.” An idea -occurred to me. “If I took your mother back with -me, I would have my parents and hers live with us in a -big place I’m going to buy in the country. You don’t -know your grandparents well?”</p> - -<p>She was coloring deeply. She must have heard more -than her mother dreamed she knew. “No, papa,” said -she.</p> - -<p>“Your mother and I were disgracefully neglectful -of them,” pursued I. “But I shall make up for it, as -far as I can. I wish you would come over and visit us.”</p> - -<p>“I should like it, papa,” murmured she, ready to -sink down with shame.</p> - -<p>“They are plain people,” I went on, “but they are -good and honest—much ahead of these wretched parasites -you’ve been brought up among.... Talk to your -mother about them. Tell her what I have said.”</p> - -<p>She understood thoroughly; that is the sort of thing -fashionable people always understand. “I shall, papa,” -said she. And I could see her putting on a fetching air -of sweet innocence and telling her mother.</p> - -<p>“And if she does not like it,” continued I—“can’t -bear the scandal and ridicule among her fashionable -friends—why, she can desert me. And that would give -me ground for divorce.”</p> - -<p>“She would be dreadfully unhappy over there,” said -Margot.</p> - -<p>“I am sure of it,” said I, and my accent was a guarantee.</p> - -<p>Should I see Edna again and picture our life together -in the house of love she was bent upon? I decided<span class="pagenum" id="Page_402">[402]</span> -against it. Margot’s pictures might lack the -energy and detail of mine. They would more than make -up in bringing home to her the awful reality, as she -would believe Margot where she might suspect me of -merely threatening what I would never carry out. So, -off I went to London—to wait.</p> - -<p>About the hardest task in this world is inaction -when every fiber of your being is clamorous for action. -Yet I contrived to sit tight—for a week—for two weeks. -I have always regarded myself as too impatient, too -impetuous. And, beyond question, my natural tendency -is to the precipitate. But looking back over my life I -am astonished—and not a little pleased with myself—as -I note how I have held myself in check, have confined -my follies of rash haste to occasions when miscarriage -was not a serious matter.</p> - -<p>Armitage came—on the way from St. Moritz to -America. As soon as I could command the right tone, -I said:</p> - -<p>“You’ve seen your sister and Mrs. Armstrong? How -are they?”</p> - -<p>“All right,” replied he indifferently. “Motoring in -Spain at present, I believe.”</p> - -<p>“Beechman—he’s with them?”</p> - -<p>“No. He’s somewhere hereabouts, I believe. I saw -him in Hyde Park the other day—looking as seedy as if -he were pulling out of an illness. I spoke and he stared -and scowled and nodded—like the bounder that he is.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t care for him?” said I, rejoiced by this -news of my rival’s seediness.</p> - -<p>“Oh, one doesn’t bother to like or dislike that sort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_403">[403]</span> -of chap.” He said this in a supercilious manner—a manner -he had never had in the earlier period of our acquaintance. -How the inner man does poke through the -surface when the veneer of youth wears thin!</p> - -<p>“For one who despises birth and wealth and rank,” -said I, not without a certain malice, “you have a queer -way of talking at times.”</p> - -<p>Armitage winced, changed the subject by saying: -“And what the devil’s the matter with <i>you</i>? You’re -looking anything but fit yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh—I’m up against it, as usual,” said I gloomily.</p> - -<p>He laughed. My pessimism was one of the jokes of -my friends. But, having seen so much of the ravages -of optimism—of the cheer-boys-cheer and always-look-at-the-bright-side -sort of thing, I had given myself the -habit of reckoning in the possibilities of disaster at full -value when I made plans. Little people ought always to -be optimistic. Then, their enthusiasm—<i>if</i> directed by -some big person—produces good results, where they -would avail nothing could they see the dangers in advance. -But big people must not be—and are not—optimists, -whatever they may pretend. The big man must -foresee all the chances against success. Then, if his -judgment tells him there is still a chance for success, his -courage of the big man will enable him to go firmly -ahead, not blunderingly but wisely. The general must -be pessimist. The private must be optimist; for if he -were pessimist, if he saw what the general must see, he -would be paralyzed with fear and doubt.</p> - -<p>“You’re always grumbling,” said Armitage. “Yet -you’re the luckiest man I know.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_404">[404]</span>“Perhaps that’s why,” replied I.</p> - -<p>He understood, nodded. “Doubtless,” said he.</p> - -<p>“What’s luck? Nothing but shrewd calculation. The -fellow who can’t calculate soon loses any windfalls that -may happen to blunder his way. But what’s the grouch -now?”</p> - -<p>I was so helplessly befogged that I resolved to tell -him.</p> - -<p>“My late wife is threatening not to release me,” -said I.</p> - -<p>He smiled curiously. “But she hasn’t done it yet?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet,” replied I. “At least not up to eleven -o’clock this morning, New York time.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she will,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Why?” demanded I.</p> - -<p>“You won’t let her, for one reason,” replied he.</p> - -<p>“You’re as fond of your freedom as I am. And nothing -on earth could induce me to marry again. When -women—English women—look at me I see them fairly -twitching to get me where they can make free use of -me. Yes—marriage has gone the way of everything -else. Business—finance—politics—religion—they’ve all -degenerated into so many means of graft. And art’s -going the same way. And marriage—it’s the woman’s -great and only graft. Our women look at marriage in -two ways—how much can be got out of it, living with -the man; how much will it net as alimony.”</p> - -<p>“You seemed rather positive that my late wife -would not hold on to me?” persisted I.</p> - -<p>He eyed me sharply. “You really wish to be -free?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_405">[405]</span>“I am determined to be free.”</p> - -<p>“She’s a charming—a lovely woman,” said he.</p> - -<p>There was doubt of my candor in his eyes. It is -all but impossible for a man rightly to judge any -woman except her he has tired of or for some other -reason does not want and cannot imagine himself wanting. -The unpossessed woman has but the one value; -the possessed woman must have other values—or she has -none. Armitage could judge Edna only as female, -unpossessed female. Said he:</p> - -<p>“She’s a charming—a lovely woman.”</p> - -<p>“Like the former Mrs. Armitage,” I reminded him.</p> - -<p>“So—so,” conceded he. “But I’ve always believed -you were a fond husband at bottom.”</p> - -<p>“Dismiss it from your mind,” said I. “You are -hesitating about telling me something. Say it!”</p> - -<p>With a certain nervousness he yielded to his love -of gossip. “Prince Frascatoni—you know him?”</p> - -<p>I beamed in a reassuring smile. “My late wife’s -chief admirer,” said I. “A fine fellow. I like him.”</p> - -<p>“He’s visiting down at—what’s the name of the -place your son-in-law has taken?”</p> - -<p>“He is?” exclaimed I jubilantly. “When did he -go?”</p> - -<p>“About a week, I hear.”</p> - -<p>“That looks encouraging, doesn’t it?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“It certainly does,” said he. “They say he was -charging round town like a lunatic up to a few weeks -ago——”</p> - -<p>“Two weeks ago,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But now he has calmed again—looks serene. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_406">[406]</span> -had a note from him this morning. I’m positive he’s -content with the way the cards are falling.”</p> - -<p>The change in me was so radical that Armitage -must have been convinced—for the moment. “If I -only knew!” said I.</p> - -<p>“I can find out for you,” suggested he. “Your -daughter has asked me down for the week end. I’ll -sacrifice myself, if you wish.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take your going as a special favor,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Besides,” he went on, “these Anglo-American -menages interest me. American women are so brash with -the men of their own country. I like to see them playing -the part of meek upper servants. The only kind -of wife to have is a grateful one. To get a grateful -wife an American has to marry some poor creature, -homely, neglected by everyone till he came along. Even -then the odds are two to one she’ll go crazy about herself -and despise him—because he stooped to her, if she -can’t find any other excuse. But a titled foreigner— An -American girl is on her knees at once and stays -there. He can abuse her—step on her—kill her almost—neglect -her—waste her money. She is still humbly -grateful.”</p> - -<p>“The worms have been known to turn,” protested I. -For, while I could not deny the general truth of Armitage’s -attack I felt he was whipped too far by bitterness -that he, for lack of a title, could not command what -these inferior men with titles had offered to them without -the bother of asking.</p> - -<p>“Not a worm,” declared he. “No American woman -ever divorced a title unless she was either in terror of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_407">[407]</span> -her life or in terror of being robbed to the last penny -and kicked out.”</p> - -<p>“Thank God all our women aren’t title crazy,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“How do you know they aren’t?” retorted he. -“Do you know one who has been tempted and has -resisted?”</p> - -<p>I had to confess I did not.</p> - -<p>“Then you thanked God too soon. The truth is our -women are brought up to be snobs, spenders—useless, -vain parasites. Their systems are all ready to be infected -with the title mania.”</p> - -<p>Armitage, on his favorite subject, talked and talked. -I did not listen attentively—not so much because I did -not like what he was saying or because I thought him -prejudiced as because I knew him to be a secret snob -of the thoroughgoing variety. I suspected that if -things were reversed, if he could get a title by marriage -and a position that would enable him to swagger -and would make everyone bow and scrape, he would -put the eagerest of the female title-hunters to the blush. -It may be just and proper to criticise women for being -what they are. But let us also hear in mind that it is -not their fault but the fault of their training; also that -the men do no better when they have the chance to -live in idle vanity upon the labors of some one else.</p> - -<p>On the following Monday my emissary returned -from Garton Hall full to the brim with news.</p> - -<p>But first he had again to assure himself that there -was no pretense in my seeming anxiety to be free. I -saw doubt of me in his eyes before he began his adroit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_408">[408]</span> -cross-examination. I gave no sign that I knew what he -was about; for in those cases the one chance of convincing -is to submit to whatever tests may be applied. -It was not unnatural that he should doubt, coming as -he did direct from seeing and talking with the charming -Edna. Men are habitually fools about women—not -because women make fools of them but because they -enjoy the sensation of making fools of themselves. -That is a sensation much praised by poets, romancers, -sentimentalists of all kinds; and because of this praise -it has come to have a certain fictitious value, has come -to be a cheap way for a man to imagine himself a devil -of a fellow, a figure of romantic recklessness. There is -no limit to which the passion for living up to a pose -will not carry a man. Men have flung away their -fortunes, their lives, for the sake of a pose; martyrs -have burned at the stake for pose. So a man of experience -even more than your ordinary brick-brained -citizen is distrustful of his fellow men where women are -concerned. And it is nothing against Armitage’s intelligence, -nor any sign of his having a low estimate -of my strength of mind, that he tried to make absolutely -sure of me before proceeding.</p> - -<p>Then, too, there was Edna’s charm. Women—I -mean, our fashionable and would-be fashionable American -women of all classes, from Fifth Avenue to the -Bowery, from Maine to the Pacific—women are parlor-bred—are -bred to make an imposing surface impression. -The best of them fool the most expert man, as Edna -had been fooling Armitage during those two days down -in the country. A man has to live with them to find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_409">[409]</span> -them out. And often, our men, being extremely busy -and kindly disposed toward their women and unobservant -of them and uncritical of them, do not find them -out for many years. The house is run badly, the money -is wasted, the children are not brought up right. But -the man lets it pass as “part of the game.” He tells -himself that not much but good looks is to be expected -of a woman; he buries himself still deeper in his business. -Then— If he is a successful man, along about -forty when he has got up high enough to be able to -relax from the labor of his career and thinks of enjoying -himself, he tries to form an alliance for pleasure -with his wife. And lo and behold, he discovers that he -is married to a vain, superficial fool.</p> - -<p>There could have been no more delightful experience -than passing a few days in the society of Edna. -She had educated herself, admirably, thoroughly, for -show. She could have fooled the fashionable man his -whole life through, for one cannot see beyond the range -of his own vision. She might have fooled many a serious -man of the narrow type; an excellent shoemaker -might easily be misled by a clever showy jack of all -trades into thinking him a master of all trades so long -as he avoided betraying his ignorance of shoemaking. -But your successful American man of the highest type, -having a broad range of practical interests, becomes a -shrewd judge of human values. Thus, the American -woman who can pass for brilliant in fashionable society -at home or abroad cannot deceive the American man—for -long. Not when he lives with her. No wonder she -finds him coarse; who does not wince when vanity is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_410">[410]</span> -stepped on or ignored? No wonder she thinks him uninteresting. -A child would have an equally poor opinion -of any person inexpert at catcher, marbles, and mud -pies.</p> - -<p>Armitage, in a company of titled people, his nostrils -full of his beloved, stealthily enjoyed perfumes of wealth -and rank, was captivated by Edna. If he had stopped -a week or so, his American shrewdness might have found -her out, might have seen why I could view with unruffled -sleeves, as the Chinese say, the loss of so lovely and -lively a companion. But, stopping only for the week -end, he became doubtful of my sincerity. I measured -how deeply he had been deluded when he spoke of her -keen sense of humor. Woman nature is too practical, -too matter of fact for even the cleverest of them to -have a real sense of humor—with now and then an -exception, of course. Edna had not a glimmer of appreciation -of either wit or humor. But only I, before -whom she dropped all pretenses except those that were -essential to her pose—only I knew this. Before the -rest of the world, with the aid of her vivacity!—What -an aid to women is vivacity!—how many of them it -marries well!—With the aid of her vivacity she made -a convincing show not only of appreciating humor and -wit but also of having much of both. At precisely the -right place she gave the proper, convincing, charming -exhibition of dancing eyes and pearl-white teeth. And -occasionally with a pretty liveliness she repeated as her -own some witticism she had heard much applauded in -another and remote company. But I do not blame you, -ladies, for your inveterate and incessant posing. We<span class="pagenum" id="Page_411">[411]</span> -men are determined to idealize and to be gulled, and -you need us to pay for your luxury and your finery.</p> - -<p>I let Armitage probe on and on until my impatience -for his news would suffer no further delay. I said:</p> - -<p>“I see you refuse to be convinced. So let it go at -that, and tell me what you found out. Is she to -marry Frascatoni?”</p> - -<p>“As I’ve been telling you, I believe she is in love -with you, Loring.”</p> - -<p>“But is she going to free me?”</p> - -<p>“Unless you do something pretty soon, I’m afraid -you’ll lose her.”</p> - -<p>It was too absurd that he, who had lived with one -of these showy vivacious women, had found her out and -had rid himself of her should be thus taken in by another -of precisely the same kind. But that’s the way -it is with men. They understand why they yawn at -their own show piece; but they can’t appreciate that all -show pieces in time produce the same effect.</p> - -<p>“There still remain three weeks before the day on -which her lawyers must ask the judge to confirm the -decree,” said I. “Do you think she will have them -do it or not?”</p> - -<p>“Unless you get busy, old man——”</p> - -<p>“But I shall not get busy. I shall do everything -I can to encourage her to stay free.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ll lose her,” said he. “Frascatoni is -mad about her, and he knows how to make an impression -on a woman. It irritated me to see a damned dago -carrying off such a prize—and you know I’m not -prejudiced in favor of American women.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_412">[412]</span>“I want to see her happy,” said I. “She will be -happy with him—so, I hope he gets her.” I laughed -mockingly. “She wouldn’t be happy with an American, -Bob—not even with you.”</p> - -<p>He colored guiltily. “That idea never entered my -head,” protested he.</p> - -<p>But I laughed the more. “And she wouldn’t have -you, Bob,” I went on. “So, don’t put yourself in the -way of being made uncomfortable.”</p> - -<p>He had enjoyed himself hugely. Not only was my -former wife most entertaining, but also Margot. She -had, beyond question, been beautifully educated for -the part she was to take in life. Her manner—so Armitage -assured me—was the perfection of gracious -simplicity—the most exquisite exhibition of the perfect -lady—“note how ladylike I am, yet how I treat you as -if you were my equal.” Gracious—there’s the word -that expresses the whole thing. And she had a quantity -of bright parlor tricks—French recitation, a little -ladylike singing in a pleasant plaintive soprano that -gave people an excuse for saying: “She could have -been a grand-opera star if she had cared to go in seriously -for that sort of thing.” Also, a graceful skirt -dance and a killing cake walk. She had an effective -line of fashionable conversation, too—about books and -pictures, analysis of soul states, mystic love theories—all -the paraphernalia of a first-class heroine of a first-class -society novel. And you, gentle reader, who know -nothing, would never have dreamed that she knew nothing. -You who are futile would not have seen how -worthless she was—except to do skirt dances well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_413">[413]</span> -enough for a drawing-room or to talk soul states well -enough for a society novel.</p> - -<p>The more Armitage discoursed of the delights of -his little visit the more nervous I became lest Edna -should again change her mind and inflict me further. -What he had said brought back my life with her in -stinging vividness. I lived again the days of my self-deception, -the darker days of my slow awakening, the -black days of my full realization of the mess my life -was, and of my feeling that there was no escape for me.</p> - -<p>“I will admit, Loring,” said Armitage, “that as -women go our women are the best of all.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I assented, sincerely. “And they ought to -be. America is the best place to grow men. Why -shouldn’t it be the best place to grow women?”</p> - -<p>He did not pursue the subject. In his heart he disagreed -with me, for he was wholly out of conceit with -everything American. His pose had been the other -way, and he shrank from uncovering himself.</p> - -<p>A day or so later I was crossing Green Park when -I ran straight into Hartley Beechman. I smiled pleasantly, -though not too cordially. He planted himself in -front of me and stared with a tragic frown. I then -noted that he verged on the unkempt, that he had -skipped his morning shave and perhaps his bath. His -stare was unmistakably offensive—the look of a man -who is seeking a quarrel.</p> - -<p>“How’re you, Beechman?” said I, ignoring the -signs of foul weather. “Armitage told me you were -in town, but didn’t know your address. Stopping -long?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_414">[414]</span>“You are a scoundrel,” said he.</p> - -<p>I shrugged my shoulders. As I was much the larger -and stronger man I could afford to do it. “So I’ve -often heard,” said I. “Perhaps it’s true. What of -it? Why should you think I cared to know your opinion -of me?”</p> - -<p>“If I send you a challenge will you accept it?”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “No, I never pay the slightest attention -to crank letters.”</p> - -<p>“You are a coward. You will not give me a chance -to meet you on equal terms.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take you over my knee and give you a spanking -if you don’t behave yourself,” said I, and I pushed -him out of my path and was passing on.</p> - -<p>“You took her away from me,” he jeered. “But -it will do you no good. She is laughing at us both.”</p> - -<p>I strode away. I had heard enough to put me in -high good humor.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As the end of my wait upon the anxious seat -drew into its last week, I fell into a state of deep -depression. Too much eating and drinking was, of -course, the cause. But I had to pass the time somehow; -and what is there to do in London but eat and -drink?</p> - -<p>Four days before the last, Rossiter came into my -sitting room with the news that Edna was calling. -There arose a nice question: Would I better send word -I was out or see her? Because of my knowledge of her -persistence where her interest was really engaged, I -decided to see her and have done with. So in she came,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_415">[415]</span> -vivacious, radiant—dressed for a scene in which she -was to be heroine, as I saw at a glance.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t think I’m going to repeat what I did -the other day,” cried she by way of beginning. “I’m -in quite another mood.”</p> - -<p>“So I see,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I was horribly ashamed and disgusted with myself -afterwards,” she went on. “You must have thought -me crazy. In fact, you did. You treated me as if I -were.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you sit?” said I, arranging a chair for -her.</p> - -<p>She smiled mischievously at me as she seated herself. -“You do know something about women,” said -she. “You put this chair so that my face would be -spared the strong light.” As she said this, she turned -into the full strength of the light a face as free as a -girl’s from wrinkles or any other sign of years. “You -certainly do know something about women.”</p> - -<p>“Very little,” said I, for it was not a time to -pause and poke a finger into the swelling bubble of -woman’s baffling complexity and unfathomable mystery. -“You’ve come to tell me what it was you wanted the -other day?”</p> - -<p>She shook her head. She was wearing a charming -hat—but her costumes were never indifferent and nearly -always charming—a feat the more remarkable because -she, being a timidly conventional woman, followed -the fashions and ventured cautiously and never -far in individual style. “You’re usually right, my -dear,” said she, “in your guesses at people’s underlying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_416">[416]</span> -motives. But you were mistaken that time. I wanted -exactly what I said. I wanted <i>you</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Incredible,” laughed I.</p> - -<p>“Yes—it does sound so,” conceded she. “But it’s -the truth. I had a queer attack—an attack of jealousy. -I’d often heard of that sort of thing. I fancied -myself above it. Perhaps that was why I fell such a -foolish victim. But I’ve recovered completely.” And -her eyes were mocking me as if she had a secret joke -on me.</p> - -<p>“It couldn’t last long,” said I, to be saying something.</p> - -<p>“No, perhaps not,” replied she. “At any rate, as -soon as I heard of Mary Kirkwood’s engagement I was -cured—instantly cured.”</p> - -<p>“I told you she was engaged,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean that Beechman person,” scoffed -Edna. “She was simply amusing herself with him. A -woman—a woman of our world—might have an affair -with a man of that sort—as you men sometimes do with -queer women. But she wouldn’t think of <i>marrying</i> him. -Marriage is a serious matter.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed,” said I.</p> - -<p>“It’s a woman’s whole career,” pursued she. “It -means not only her position, but the position of her -children, too.”</p> - -<p>“Very serious,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No—I mean Mary’s engagement to Count von -Tilzer-Borgfeldt.”</p> - -<p>“I hadn’t heard of it,” said I indifferently. There -could be nothing in such a silly story.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_417">[417]</span>“Didn’t Bob Armitage tell you?”</p> - -<p>“Not yet,” said I. “But why should he?”</p> - -<p>“That’s queer,” mused she. “Perhaps he thought -there might be a little something in the talk about you -and Mary, and that it would be well not to stir things -up.”</p> - -<p>“That might account for it,” I agreed.</p> - -<p>She was studying me closely. “I believe you really -didn’t care about Mary,” continued she. “I confess -I was astonished when I first heard that you did. -She’s—” Edna laughed—“hardly up to <i>me</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Hardly,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But let’s not talk of her. I’ve forgotten all that. -I’ve come to make a last proposal to you.”</p> - -<p>She was smiling, but I detected seriousness in her -eyes, in her unsteady upper lip, in her hands trying not -to move restlessly.</p> - -<p>“You don’t realize what a strong hold you have on -me, Godfrey. Is it love? Is it habit? I don’t know. -But I can’t shake it off. Don’t you think me strange, -talking to you in this way?”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t you?” said I.</p> - -<p>“It’s more like a woman who isn’t attractive to -men.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary,” said I. “You speak like a -woman accustomed to deal with men according to her -own good pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“How shrewd that is!” said she, with an admiring -glance. “How shrewd you are! That’s what I miss -in other men—in these men over here who have so much -that I admire. But they—well, they give me the feeling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_418">[418]</span> -that they are superficial. Do you think <i>I</i> am superficial?”</p> - -<p>“How could I?” said I.</p> - -<p>“That’s an evasion,” laughed she. “You <i>do</i> think -so. And perhaps I am. A woman ought to be. A -man looks after the serious side of life. The woman’s -side is the lighter and graceful side—don’t you think -so?”</p> - -<p>“That sounds plausible,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But I grow tired of superficial men. They give -me the feeling that—well, that they couldn’t be relied -on. And you are reliable, Godfrey. I feel about you -that no matter what happened you’d be equal to it. -And that’s why I don’t want to give you up.”</p> - -<p>I sat with my eyes down, as if I were listening and -reflecting.</p> - -<p>“Since you’ve been over here long enough to—to -broaden a little— You don’t mind my saying you’ve -broadened?”</p> - -<p>“It’s true,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I’ve fancied perhaps you might be seeing that I -wasn’t altogether wrong in my ideas?”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” said I, as she hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Margot was telling me about some plans you had—for -living on the other side. You weren’t in earnest?”</p> - -<p>I looked at her gravely. “Very much in earnest,” -said I. “I shall never again, in any circumstances, live -as we used to live.”</p> - -<p>She sank back in her chair, slowly turned her parasol -round and round. “Then—it’s hopeless,” said she,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_419">[419]</span> -with a sigh that was a sob also. And the look in the -eyes she lifted to mine went straight to my heart. “I -simply can’t stand America,” said she. “It reminds -me of—” She rose impatiently. “If you only knew, -Godfrey, how I <i>loathe</i> my origin—the dreadful depth -we came from—the commonness of it.” She shuddered.</p> - -<p>“Europe is the place for you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is,” cried she. “And we could be happy -over here—if you’d only see it in the right light. Godfrey, -I don’t want to—to change. Won’t you compromise?”</p> - -<p>“By conceding everything?” said I good-humoredly. -“By becoming the bedraggled tail to your gay and -giddy kite?”</p> - -<p>“You simply won’t reason about these things!” -exclaimed she. “Yet they say men are reasonable!”</p> - -<p>“My dear Edna, I don’t ask you to make yourself -wretched for <i>my</i> sake. And I don’t purpose to be -wretched for <i>your</i> sake.”</p> - -<p>She sat down again. The brightness had faded -from her. She looked older than I’d have believed she -could. “Well—I see it’s useless,” she said finally. -“And as I’ve got to stay over here, I simply must -marry again. You understand that?”</p> - -<p>“Perfectly,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you care the least bit?” said she wistfully.</p> - -<p>“You wish me to be unhappy about it,” laughed I, -“to gratify your vanity.”</p> - -<p>She sighed again.</p> - -<p>“You are content with the settlements?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_420">[420]</span>“Oh, yes,” said she wearily.</p> - -<p>No doubt you, gentle reader, are now completely won -over to her and think that the least I could in decency -have done would have been to insist on her accepting -half my fortune. I had no impulse toward that folly. -There is a kind of wife who can justly claim that she is -the equal partner in her husband’s wealth. But not the -Edna kind. I had made my fortune in spite of her. -Nor was I keen to give her any more money than I should -be compelled; why turn over wealth to her to fritter -away and to bolster the pretensions of a family of worthless -Italian aristocrats?</p> - -<p>With a sudden darting look at me, she said: “You -know Frascatoni. What do you think of him?”</p> - -<p>“A fine specimen,” said I. “A fascinating man.”</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders. “Fascinating enough, -I suppose. But—would you <i>trust</i> him?”</p> - -<p>“I would not,” replied I. “Nor any other man. I -have long since learned not to trust even myself. But -I’d trust him as far as the next man—as far as it’s necessary -to trust anyone.”</p> - -<p>She nodded in appreciation and agreement. “I believe -he genuinely cares for me,” she said, adding with a -melancholy look at me, “And it’s pleasant to be cared -about.”</p> - -<p>“So I have heard,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You never wanted anyone to care about you,” -said she. “You are independent of everything and -everybody.”</p> - -<p>“That’s safest,” said I.</p> - -<p>She did not reply. After reflecting she burst out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_421">[421]</span> -with, “You ought to have <i>made</i> me, Godfrey—ought to -have trained me to your taste. Women have to be -<i>made</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Even if that had been possible in this case,” I observed, -“I didn’t know enough.”</p> - -<p>Again she thought a long time; then with a sigh she -said: “But it’s too late now. You’re right. It’s too -late.”</p> - -<p>It puzzled me to note how much the world had taught -her in some ways, and how little in others. But that is -a familiar puzzle—the unexpected, startling ways in -which knowledge juts out into ignorance and ignorance -closes in upon knowledge, forming a coast line between -the land of knowledge and the sea of ignorance more -jagged than that of Alaska or Norway. The result is -that each of us is a confused contention of wisdom and -folly in which the imperious instincts of elemental passions -and appetites, by their steady persistence, easily -get their way.</p> - -<p>“Since I’ve begun to look at these foreign men -seriously,” she went on, “to study them— It’s one -thing to size them up, as you say in America, with the -idea that they’re mere outsiders—acquaintances—social -friends. It’s very different to measure them with a view -to serious relations. I’m not altogether a fool—even -from your standpoint—am I, Godfrey?”</p> - -<p>“Distinctly not,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Since I’ve been <i>studying</i> these upper-class men -over here—I’ve changed my mind in some respects. -I’m not a child, you know. I haven’t done what I’ve -done without using some judgment of men and women.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_422">[422]</span> -She flooded me with a smile of gratitude. “I owe my -judgment to you, Godfrey. You taught me.”</p> - -<p>“You never agreed with anything I said—when I -did occasionally venture an opinion.”</p> - -<p>“Because a woman disagrees and scorns—it doesn’t -follow that she isn’t convinced.”</p> - -<p>“You’ve changed your mind about these men?” -said I, for my curiosity was aroused.</p> - -<p>“I find a lack in them. You’re right to a certain -extent, Godfrey. They <i>are</i> futile—the cleverest of -them. Culture gives a great deal, of course.”</p> - -<p>“What?” said I.</p> - -<p>“It’s too long and involved to explain. And you -don’t believe in it.”</p> - -<p>“I’m willing to,” said I. “But first, I’d like to -know what it is, and second, I’d like to know what it -<i>does</i>. I’ve never been able to get anything but words in -answer to either question.”</p> - -<p>“Well, <i>I</i> see that it gives a great deal. But I must -admit that it takes away something—yes, much—strength -from the mind and softness from the heart.”</p> - -<p>I was astonished at this admission from her—at the -admission itself, at the fresh evidences of what a good -natural mind she had. But I had no desire to discuss -with her. I had long outgrown the folly of discussion -with futile people. I was tempted to air my own views -of this so-called culture—how it emasculated where it -pretended to soften; how it discovered nothing, invented -nothing, produced nothing, did not feed, or clothe, or -shelter, or in any way contribute to the sane happiness -of a human being; how it unfitted men and women for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_423">[423]</span> -active life, made them pitiful spectators merely, scoffing -or smiling superciliously at the battle. But I refrained. -I knew she believed the rôle of spectator the only one -worthy a lady or a gentleman—and certainly it is the -only one either lady or gentleman could take without -being exposed as ridiculous. I knew that her wise observations -were clever conversation merely, after the -manner of futile people—that when the time for action -came her snobbishness dominated her.</p> - -<p>“I wish these men were not so—so——”</p> - -<p>“Good-for-nothing?” I suggested.</p> - -<p>She accepted the phrase, though she would have -preferred one less mercilessly truthful.</p> - -<p>“You can’t find everything in one person,” said I.</p> - -<p>That kind of tame generality—lack of interest thinly -veiled in a polite show of interest—kills conversation -and sets a tarrying caller to moving where dead silence -produces a nervous tendency to linger. Edna extended -her arm, resting her hand upon the crook of her parasol -in a gesture of approaching departure. Yet she seemed -loth to go. She rose, but counterbalanced with:</p> - -<p>“You know, I suppose, that it’s likely to be Frascatoni?”</p> - -<p>I rose, replied indifferently, “So I hear.”</p> - -<p>She stood, smiling vaguely down at the gloved hand -on the crook of the parasol. “If I were only younger—or -more credulous,” said she. And I knew that there -was a thin, sour after-taste to the sparkling wine of the -prince’s love-making. I smiled—pleasant, noncommittal.</p> - -<p>“I ask too much of life,” said she impatiently.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_424">[424]</span> -“Isn’t it irritating that I should become critical just as -I am in a position to get everything I’ve longed for and -worked for?”</p> - -<p>“Those moods pass,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No doubt,” said she. “Well—good-by.” She -put out her hand with a radiant smile. “I’ll not annoy -you any more.”</p> - -<p>My answering smile and pressure of the hand were -friendly, but cautiously so, for I felt I was still on thin -ice. I opened the door for her. We shook hands again. -Our eyes met. I think it must have given each of us a -shock to see in the other’s face the polite, distant look of -strangers parting. How easy it is for two to become -like one—and when they are, how impossible it seems -that they could ever be aliens. How easy it is for two -that are as one to become utter strangers; the sea is -wide, and its currents curve rapidly away from each -other.</p> - -<p>“Rossiter,” said I—he was at work in the anteroom, -“take Mrs. Loring to her carriage, please.”</p> - -<p>So—she was gone; I was free!</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_425">[425]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">XIII</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Not</span> a shadow of doubt lingered. She was gone; I -was free. Her manner had been the manner of finality. -Her reluctance and her sadness were little more than -the convention of mourning which human beings feel -compelled to display on mortuary occasions of all kinds. -Beneath the crepe I saw a not discontented resignation, -a conviction of the truth that life together was impossible -for her and me.</p> - -<p>My male readers—those who have a thinking apparatus -and use it—will probably wonder, as I did then, -that she had overlooked certain obvious advantages to -be gained through refusing to divorce me. She knew -me well enough to be certain I would not compel her to -go to America and live with me, but if she insisted would -let her stay in Europe or wander where she pleased. -This would have given her all the advantages of widowhood. -Free, with plenty of money, she could have led -her own life, without ever having to consult the conveniences -and caprices of a husband. It seemed to me -singularly stupid of her to resign this signal advantage, -to tie herself to a husband she could not ignore, -a husband she already saw would bore her, as poseurs -invariably bore each other—to tie herself to such a man -with no compensating advantage but a title. Indeed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_426">[426]</span> -so stupid did it seem that from the moment she began -to waver about confirming the divorce I all but lost hope -of freedom.</p> - -<p>My women readers will understand her. A man -cannot appreciate how hampered a woman of the lady -class is without a legitimate male attachment of some -kind—a husband, a brother, or a father in constant -attendance, ready for use the instant the need arises. -Our whole society is built upon the theory that woman -is the dependent, the appendage of man. Freedom is -impossible for a woman, except at a price almost no -woman voluntarily pays. To have any measure of -freedom a woman must bind herself to some man, and -the bondage has to be cruel indeed not to be preferable -to the so-called freedom of the unattached female. Thus -it was not altogether snobbishness, it may not have -been chiefly snobbishness, that moved Edna to transfer -herself to a husband who would be a more or less unpleasant -actuality. She had to have a man. She wished -to live abroad and to be in fashionable society. She -chose shrewdly. I imagine, from several things she -said, that she had measured Frascatoni with calm -impartiality, had discovered many serious disadvantages -in him as husband to a woman of her fondness -for her own way. But estimating the disadvantages -at their worst, the balance still tipped heavily toward -him.</p> - -<p>I am glad I was not born a woman. I pity the women -of our day, bred and educated in the tastes of men, yet -compelled to be dependents, and certain of defeat in a -finish contest with man.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_427">[427]</span>Though there was now no reasonable doubt of Edna’s -having the decree of divorce made final, I, through -overcaution or oversensitiveness as to Mary Kirkwood’s -rights, or what motive you please, would not let myself -leave London until a cable from my lawyers in New -York informed me that the decree had been entered -and that I was legally free. The newspapers had given -much space to our affairs. It was assumed that I had -come abroad “to make last desperate efforts to win -back the beautiful and charming wife, the favorite of -fashionable European society.” Stories had been published, -giving in minute detail accounts of the bribes I -had offered. And when the final decree was entered, my -chagrin and fury were pictured vividly.</p> - -<p>I did nothing to discredit this, but, on the contrary, -helped along the campaign for the preservation of the -literary and journalistic fiction that the American woman -is a kind of divine autocrat over mankind. If I had -been so vain and so ungallant as to try to make the -public see the truth I should have failed. You can -discredit the truth to the foolish race of men; but you -cannot discredit, nor even cast a shade of doubt upon, -a generally accepted fiction of sentimentality. And of -all the sentimental fictions that everyone slobbers over, -but no one in his heart believes with the living and only -valid faith of works, the fictions about woman are the -most sacred. Further, how many men are there who believe -that a man could get enough of a physically lovely -woman, however trying she might be? Once in a while -in a novel—not often, but once in a while—there are -scenes portraying with some approach to fidelity what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_428">[428]</span> -happens between a woman and a man who is of the sort -that is attractive to women. Invariably such scenes are -derided or denounced by the critics. Why? For an -obvious reason. A critic is, to put it charitably, an -average man. He has no insight; he must rely for his -knowledge of life solely upon experience. Now what is -the average man’s experience of women? He treats -them in a certain dull, conventional way, and they treat -him—as he invites and compels. So when he reads how -women act toward a man who does not leave them cold -or indifferent, who rouses in them some sensation other -than wonder whether they would be able to stomach him -as a husband, the critic scoffs and waxes wroth. The -very idea that women might be less reserved, less queenly, -less grudgingly gracious than woman has ever been -to him sends shooting pains through his vanity—and -toothache and sciatica are mild compared with the torturings -of a pain-shotten vanity.</p> - -<p>Edna scored heavily in the newspapers. You would -never have suspected it was her late husband’s money -that had given her everything, that had made her -throughout; for, what had she, and what was she, except -a product of lavishly squandered money? Think about -that carefully, gentle reader, before you damn me and -commiserate her as in these pages a victim of my venomous -malice.... She was the newspaper heroine of the -hour. If she had been content with this— But I shall -not anticipate.</p> - -<p>My cable message from New York came at five -o’clock. At half-past six, accompanied only by my -valet, I was journeying toward Switzerland.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_429">[429]</span>Mrs. Kirkwood, I had learned from her brother, was -at Territet, at the Hotel Excelsior, with the Horace -Armstrongs. At four the following afternoon I descended -at Montreux from the Milan express; at five, -with travel stains removed, I was in the garden of the -Excelsior having tea with Mrs. Armstrong and listening -to her raptures over the Savoy Alps. Doubtless -you know Mrs. Armstrong’s (Neva Carlin’s) work. -Her portrait of Edna is famous, is one of the best examples -I know of inside-outness. Edna does not like it, -perhaps for that reason.</p> - -<p>Mary and Horace Armstrong had gone up to Caux. -“But,” said Neva, “they’ll surely be back in a few -minutes. Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt is coming at -half-past five.”</p> - -<p>I instantly recognized that name as the one Edna -gave in telling me that Mary had gone shopping for -a title and had invested. I had thought Edna’s jeer -produced no effect upon me. I might have known -better. My nature has, inevitably, been made morbidly -suspicious by my business career. Also, I had found -out Robert Armitage as a well-veneered snob, and this -could not but have put me in an attitude of watchfulness -toward his sister, so like him mentally. Also my -investigations of that most important phenomenon of -American life, the American woman, had compelled me to -the conclusion that the disease of snobbishness had infected -them all, with a few doubtful exceptions. So, -without my realizing it, my mind was prepared to believe -that Mary Kirkwood was like the rest. When -Neva Armstrong pronounced the name Edna had given,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_430">[430]</span> -there shot through me that horrible feeling of insufferable -heat and insufferable cold which it would be useless -to attempt to describe; for those who have felt it will understand -at once, and those who have not could not be -made to understand. And then I recalled Hartley Beechman’s -jeer, “She’s laughing at us both.” But my voice -was natural as I said:</p> - -<p>“Tilzer-Borgfeldt. That’s the chap she’s engaged -to just now, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Armstrong, who is a loyal friend, flushed angrily. -“Mary isn’t that sort, and you know it, for -you’ve known her a long time.”</p> - -<p>“Then she’s not engaged to him?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yes, she is,” replied Neva. “And if you knew -him, you’d not wonder at it. I don’t like foreigners, -but if I weren’t bespoke I think I’d have to take Tilzer-Borgfeldt -if he asked me.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt it’s a first-class title,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You know perfectly well, Godfrey Loring, that I -don’t mean the title.” She happened to glance toward -the entrance to the garden. “Here he comes now. -You’ll judge for yourself.”</p> - -<p>Advancing toward us was a big, happy blond man -of the pattern from which nine out of ten German upper-class -men are cut. He had the expression of simple, unaffected -joy natural to a big, healthy, happy blond youth -looking forward to seeing his best girl. He had youth, -good looks, unusual personal magnetism—and you will -imagine what effect this produced upon my mood. I -could not deny that Neva was right. Without a title -this man would have all the chances in his favor when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_431">[431]</span> -he went courting. He had not a trace of aristocratic -futility.</p> - -<p>You would have admired the frank cordiality of my -greeting. Instead of sitting down again I glanced at -my watch and said:</p> - -<p>“Well, my time’s up. I shall have to go without -seeing Horace and Mary.”</p> - -<p>“But you’ll come to dinner?” said Mrs. Armstrong.</p> - -<p>“I’m taking the first express back to Paris,” said I. -“I found a telegram waiting for me at my hotel.”</p> - -<p>“Mary will be disappointed,” said Neva. “You’ll -give Mrs. Loring my best?”</p> - -<p>I remembered that the English papers, with the news -doubtless in it, would not reach Territet until late that -evening or the following morning. But I could not well -tell her what had occurred. “Good-by,” said I, shaking -hands. “Tell them how sorry I was. I may see you -all in Paris.”</p> - -<p>And away I went, with not an outward sign of my internal -state. In less than half an hour I was in the -Paris express.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I stopped at Paris a month. A letter came from her—a -bulky letter. I tossed it unopened into the fire. A -week, and a second letter came. It was not so bulky. -I flung it unopened into the fire. About two weeks, and -a third letter came. I got Rossiter to address an envelope -to her. I inclosed her unopened letter in the -envelope and mailed it. I was giving myself an exquisite -pleasure, the keener because it was seasoned with exquisite -pain.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_432">[432]</span>All this time I had been amusing my idle days in -the usual fashion. My readers who lead quiet lives—the -women who sit thinking what they would do if only they -were men—the men who slip away occasionally for a -scampish holiday, and return to their sober routine with -the cheering impression that they have been most fearfully -and wonderfully devilish—those women and those -men will regret that I refrain from details of how I -amused myself. But to my notion I have said enough -when I have said “in the usual fashion.” It passed the -time as probably nothing else in the circumstances would -have passed such tenacious hours, every one lingering to -be counted. But I confess I have never been virtuous -enough to be especially raptured by so-called vice. No -doubt those who divide actions into good and bad, using -the good for steady diet and the bad for dessert, have -advantages in enjoyment over those who simply regard -things as interesting and uninteresting. For, curiously -enough, on that latter basis of division practically all -the things esteemed by most human beings as the delightful -but devilish dessert of life fall into the class of more -or less uninteresting. But for the stimulus of the notion -that he is doing something courageously, daringly -wicked, I doubt if any but a dull fellow would perpetrate -vice enough to lift the most easily scandalized hands in -the world. The trouble with vice is that it is so tiresome—and -so bad for the health. And most of it is so vulgar. -Drinking to excess and gambling, for instance. I -have indulged in both at times, when hard pressed for -ways to pass the time or when in those stupid moods of -obstinate unreasonableness in which a man takes a savage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_433">[433]</span> -pleasure in disgusting himself with himself. Drinking -has a certain coarse appeal to the imagination—coarse -and slight but definite. But gambling is sheer -vulgarity. I have been called money-mad, because I have -made money, finding it easy and occupying to attend to -business. Yet never have I cared about money sufficiently -to take the faintest interest in the gaming table. -Gambling—all forms of it—is for those sordid creatures -who love money, and who have no intelligent appreciation -of its value. Gambling—all the vices, for that -matter—is essentially aristocratic; for, as I believe I -have explained, aristocracy analyzes into the quintessence -of vulgarity. The two incompetent classes—the -topmost and the bottommost—are steeped in vice, for -the same reason of their incompetence to think or to act.</p> - -<p>A fourth letter, the bulkiest of all, came from Mary -Kirkwood. A few hours before it was delivered a telegram -came from her:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“A letter is on the way. Godfrey, I beg you -to read it. I love you.”</p> -</div> - -<p>I tore up the telegram, sent back the letter without -opening it. You are denouncing me as inhuman, gentle -reader. Perhaps you are right. But permit me to point -out to you that, if I had not in my composition a vein -of iron, I should never have risen from the mosquito-haunted -flats of the Passaic. Also, gentle reader, if I -had been a man of the ordinary sort would Mary Kirkwood -have been sufficiently interested in me to send those -letters and that telegram?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_434">[434]</span>A day or so after the return of her last letter I was -seized—I can’t say why—with a longing to see my father -and mother and sister, on that lonely farm out in New -Jersey. I had never felt that desire since I first left -home, but had made my few and brief visits out of a -sense of duty—no, of shame. The thought of them gave -me no sensation of horror, as it gave Edna and her -daughter. When I remembered them it was simply as -one remembers any random fact. They did not understand me; -and in them there was nothing to understand. -We had few subjects for conversation, and those not -wildly interesting and soon exhausted. You will smile -when I say I loved them. Yet it is the truth. We do -not always love those we like to be with; we do not always -like to be with those we love.</p> - -<p>There was nothing to detain me in Paris. The hours -hung like guests who do not know how to take leave. So -not many days elapsed between my seizure and my appearance -at the spacious and comfortable stone farmhouse -where the four old people were awaiting in a semi-comatose -or dozing state what they firmly believed was -a summons to a higher life. Their belief in it, like that -of most religious people, was not strong enough to make -them impatient to get it; still they believed, and found -the belief a satisfactory way of employing such small -part of their minds as remained awake.</p> - -<p>I had not seen them or their place in several years, so -I was astonished by the changes. My sister Polly—a -homely old maid—and Edna’s father had some glimmerings -of enterprise. Polly took in and read several -magazines, and from them gathered odds and ends of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_435">[435]</span> -up-to-date ideas about dress, about furnishing, about -gardens. With the valuable assistance of old Weeping -Willie she had wrought a most creditable transformation. -The old people now “looked like something,” as the saying -is. And the place had a real smartness—both within -and without.</p> - -<p>Polly—she was about eight years my senior, but -looked old enough to be my mother—Polly watched me -anxiously as I strolled and nosed about. My delight -filled her with delight.</p> - -<p>“You’re not so ashamed of us, perhaps?” said she.</p> - -<p>“I never have been,” replied I. Nor did I put an -accent on the personal pronoun that would have been a -hint about somebody else’s feelings.</p> - -<p>“Well—you ought to have been,” said she. “We -were mighty far behind even the tail of the procession.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll admit I like this better than the way we used -to live in Passaic. Polly, you’ve got the best there is -going. All the rest—all the luxury and other nonsense—is -nothing but a source of unhappiness.”</p> - -<p>She did not answer. I noted a touching sadness in -her expression.</p> - -<p>“You don’t agree with me?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do,” replied she emphatically. “I wasn’t -thinking of that.”</p> - -<p>“What have <i>you</i> got to be unhappy about?”</p> - -<p>“You think I’m ungrateful to you,” said she, with -quick sensitiveness. “But I’m not, Godfrey—indeed -I’m not.”</p> - -<p>“Ungrateful?” I laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_436">[436]</span>“You’ve done all you could—all anyone could. -And in a way I am happy. But——”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” I urged, as she hesitated.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve found out—looking back over my life—I’ve -found out that I— It seems to me I’ve got all the -<i>tools</i> of happiness, but nothing to <i>work on</i>. I keep -thinking, ‘How happy I could be if I only had something -to work on!’”</p> - -<p>I was silent. A shadow crept out of a black corner -of my heart and cast a somberness and a chill over me.</p> - -<p>“You understand?” said she.</p> - -<p>I nodded.</p> - -<p>“I thought you would,” she went on. “Godfrey, -I’ve often felt sorry for you—sorrier than I do for myself.” -She laid her hand on my arm. “But you’re a -man—a handsome, attractive, <i>young</i> man. You’ll have -only yourself to blame if you waste your life as mine’s -been wasted.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t realize how lucky you’ve been,” said I, -with a bitterness that surprised me. “You’ve at least -escaped marriage.”</p> - -<p>“I wish to God I hadn’t,” cried she with an energy -that startled me. There was a fierce look of pain in her -eyes. “I thought you understood. But I see you -don’t.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, Polly Ann?” said I gently.</p> - -<p>“The real unhappiness isn’t an unhappy marriage,” -replied she. “It’s being not married at all—not having -any children. You know what I am—an old maid. -You think that means the same thing as old bachelor. -Well, it don’t.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_437">[437]</span>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>“An old bachelor—nine times out of ten that means -simply an old, selfish, comfortable man. But an old -maid— The nature of woman’s different from the -nature of man. A woman’s got to have a home—<i>her</i> -home—her nest, with her children in it. And I’m an old -maid. If I’d been a man—” She turned on me. -“I’m ugly, ain’t I? You know I am. <i>I</i> know it. -Dress me up in men’s clothes and I’d be a good-looking -person—as a man. But as a woman I’m ugly. If I’d -have been a man I could have got a mighty nice, mighty -nice-looking wife—one that’d have been grateful to me -for taking her and would have cared for me. But as a -woman I couldn’t get a husband.”</p> - -<p>“You can get a very good one,” said I. “Money—what -would have bought you a wife as a man—what buys -most men their wives—will buy you a husband. And -he’ll be grateful and loving, so long as you manage the -purse strings well—just as most wives are loving and -grateful if their husbands don’t treat them too indulgently.”</p> - -<p>“It’s different, and you know it is,” retorted she. -“Custom has made it different. And I’m ugly—and -that’s fatal in a woman.”</p> - -<p>“Charm will beat beauty every time,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got no charm—none on the outside. And -that’s where a woman’s charm has to be. No, I’ve -thought out my case. It’s hopeless. I’m a born old -maid. No man ever asked me to marry him. No man -ever said a word of love to me. Do you know what that -means, Godfrey?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_438">[438]</span>I was silent. A choke in my throat made speech -impossible.</p> - -<p>“Never a word of love,” she went on monotonously. -“Yet I don’t suppose any woman ever wanted to hear it -more. And no children. Yet I know no woman ever -wanted them more. No, not adopted children—but my -own flesh and blood. I’ve heard women complain of -the burden of bearing a child. It made me wild to -listen to them—the fools—the selfish fools! What -wouldn’t I have given to have felt a child within me. -Does it scandalize you to hear me talk like this?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said I. “No.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a wonder,” said she, with a grim smile. She -was quieting down, was hiding the heart from which she -had on impulse snatched the veil, was ashamed of her -outburst. “A woman can talk about having a cancer, -or a tumor, or any frightful disease inside her, and -nobody’s modesty is shocked. But if she speaks of -having a child within her—a wonderful, living human -being—a lovely baby—why, it’s immodest!” She gave -a scornful laugh. “What a world! What a world!”</p> - -<p>I looked at her and marveled. What a world, indeed!—where -<i>this</i> was one of the sort of relatives of -whom pushing arrived people were ashamed!</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I think I forced myself to stay three days with them. -I cannot recall; perhaps I left the second day. However -that may be, I have the sense of a long, a very long -visit. To one who has the city habit the country is -oppressively deliberate even when it is interesting. It -makes you realize how there is room, and to spare, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_439">[439]</span> -sixty minutes in an hour, for sixty seconds in each -minute. The city entertains; the country compels you -to seek entertainment, to make entertainment. People -whose mentality tapers away from mediocrity grow old -and dull rapidly in the country as soon as childhood’s -torrential life begins to slacken. For men of thought -the country ought to be ideal, I should say, once they -formed its habit and lost the city habit of waiting in -confident expectation of being amused. But for men -of action like myself, for men whose whole life is dealing -directly with their fellow men, to acquire the country -habit is a matter of years, of a complete revolution.</p> - -<p>I brought a sore and a sick heart to the country. I -took back to town one that was on the way toward the -normal. And I owed the improvement not to the -country directly, but to my sister. Polly Ann had reminded -me of the futility of graveyard mooning, of its -egotism and hypocrisy. She had reminded me that only -the fool walks backward through life. I believed I had -been guilty of the folly of blowing a bubble of delusion, -pretending to myself that it was no bubble, but permanent, -substantial, real. The bubble had burst, as bubbles -must—had burst with a mocking and irritating -dash of cold spray straight into my face. Well!—the -sensible thing to do, the only thing to do, was to laugh -and blow no more bubbles.</p> - -<p>I went back to finance; I busied myself to the uttermost -of my capacity for work. But I could not uproot -the idea Mary Kirkwood had set growing in my mind. -I saw ever more clearly that my sister was eternally -right. Some men might be successful bachelors. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_440">[440]</span> -could be fairly successful at that selfish and solitary -profession for a few years, perhaps for ten or fifteen -years longer. But I knew with the clearness of a vision -trained to search the horizon of the future that the -feeling of loneliness, of complete futility which already -shadowed me, would become a black pall. I <i>must</i> have -companionship; and to companionship there is but the -one way—the way of wife and children. A poor, an -uncertain way; nevertheless the only way.</p> - -<p>You have, perhaps, observed the marriages of the -rich. You have noted that every rich man and every -rich woman is surrounded by a smaller or larger army -of satellites—persons nominally their social equals, often -distinctly their mental superiors, salaried persons, wearers -of cast-off clothing, eaters of luncheons and dinners, -permanent free lodgers, constant or occasional pensioners -more or less disguised. Family life fails with the -rich as it fails with the well off, or with the poor. But -while other classes revert to the herd life, the life of -clubs, saloons, teas, receptions, the rich take up the -parasite-beset life, each rich person aloof with his or her -particular circle of flatterers, attendants, coat-holders, -joke-makers, and boot-lickers.</p> - -<p>Now it so happened that for me there could be no -enduring of this standing apart in the meadow, switching -my tail while parasites bit and tickled, buzzed and -burrowed. Riches, like any other heavy and constantly -growing responsibility, usually rob a man of his sense -of humor and turn his thoughts in upon himself and -make him a ridiculous ass of an egotist. They had not -had that effect upon me. I can give no reason; I simply<span class="pagenum" id="Page_441">[441]</span> -state the fact. So, with my sense of humor active, and -my sense of proportion fairly well balanced, I could not -give myself up to the dreary life custom assigns to the -rich. I retained the normal human instincts.</p> - -<p>I had hoped to satisfy them to the uttermost with -the aid of Mary Kirkwood. That hope had fallen dead. -I must search on—not for the best conceivable, but for -the best possible.</p> - -<p>You are not surprised at my lack of sentiment, -gentle reader. By this time, I am sure, I could not -surprise you with any exhibition of that or other depravity. -But it confirms your conviction of my utter -sordidness. So? Then you imagine, do you, that there -are many love marriages in the world, leaving out of -the count those in novels and in the twaddling gossip -men and women repeat as the true heart stories of this -and that person? Yes, I should say your intelligence -was about rudimentary enough to give you such a false -notion of life as it is lived. Marriages of passion there -are a-plenty. Rarely, indeed, does a man become bill-payer -to a woman for life—not to speak of the insurance—without -having been more or less agitated by her -physical charms; and usually the woman, eager to be -married, whips up for him a return feeling that looks -well, convinces the man and herself, and makes you, -gentle reader, sigh and wipe your sloppy eyes. But -love-marriage—that’s a wholly different matter. I -should say it almost never occurs. Where love, a sentiment -of slow and reluctant growth, does happen occasionally -to come afterwards, because the two are really -congenial, really mated—where love does come afterwards,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_442">[442]</span> -it did not exist when the wedding bells rang. -And I doubt not that love has grown as often, if not -oftener, where the motives that led to the marriage were -practical and even sordid than where they were the -bright, swift fading, and in death most foul-smelling, -flowers of passion.</p> - -<p>I was willing to buy a wife, if I could find a woman -who promised to wear well, to improve on acquaintance, -or, at least, not to deteriorate. And, beyond question, -with my money I could have taken my pick. Almost -any girl anywhere, engaged or unengaged, would have -fallen in love with me as soon as she discovered my -charms—of person and of purse. Yes, would have -fallen in love, gentle reader. Don’t you know that a -nice, pure girl always makes herself, or lets herself, fall -in love, before she gives herself? And don’t you know -that, except falling out of love—out of that kind of love—there’s -nothing easier, especially for an inexperienced -girl, than falling in love—in that kind of love?</p> - -<p>But where was I to find a woman with enough solid -quality to give me a reasonable hope that she would aid -me in my quest for family happiness?</p> - -<p>Do not denounce me, gentle reader. Epithet and -hiss are not reply. Answer my question.</p> - -<p>You say there are millions of such girls. Yes? -But where?</p> - -<p>You say there are millions of pure, sweet, charming -girls, intelligent and domestic. Yes. No doubt. -But how long would they remain so if tempted by -wealth, by the example of all the money-mad, luxury-mad, -society-mad women about them?</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_443">[443]</span>Mind you, I did not want a stupid rotter, a cow, a -sitter and lounger and taker on of fat and slougher -off of intelligence. I did not want the lazy slattern -who poses as domestic, who is fond of home in -exactly the same way that a pig is fond of an alley -wallow.</p> - -<p>You laugh at me. You say: “He is a conceited -fool!—to think that <i>he</i> could attract and absorb an intelligent -woman with a complex woman’s soul!” Not -so, gentle reader. I did not wish to attract and to absorb -her. As for the “complex woman’s soul,” the -less I saw or heard of it, the better pleased I’d be. I -simply wanted a woman who would join me in being -attracted by and absorbed in family life.</p> - -<p>You are still smiling mockingly. But let me tell -you a few secrets of wisdom and happiness. First—Friendship -is divine, but intimacy is the devil himself—unless -it is the intimacy of the family. Second—To -love your neighbor as yourself, he must be and must -remain your neighbor, that is to say, within hail, but -not within touch. Third—Husband, wife, and children -are the only natural intimates—intimate because they -have the bond of common interest. The family that -looks abroad for intimates has ceased to be a family. -Finally—A man who has his wife and children for intimates -has neither need nor time for other intimates; -and unless a man’s wife and children are his intimates, -he has, in fact, no wife and no children. Let me add, -for the benefit of—perhaps of you and your husband, -gentle reader—that the only career worth having is -built upon and with efficient work; careers made with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_444">[444]</span> -friendships, gaddings, pulls, and the like would better -be left unmade.</p> - -<p>You are smiling still, in your smug, supercilious -fashion—smiling at what you promptly call old-fashioned -trite truisms. I am not sure that, after they have -been thought about a while, they would seem old-fashioned -or stale. Rather, I flatter myself, they are the -statement of a new philosophy of life. For the old -theory with which you are confusing these truths was -that the family is the <i>social unit</i>. In fact, it is not; -the only <i>social</i> units are individuals—capable individuals. -My theory, or rather my philosophy—for it is -more than a theory—my philosophy is that the family -is the <i>unit of happiness</i>. Society can—and does—get -along fairly well with little or no happiness. But happiness -is an excellent thing, nevertheless. And <i>I</i> -wanted it.</p> - -<p>Now, perhaps, you see why I was not looking forward -with any exuberance of optimism to finding the -woman whom I needed and wanted, and who needed and -wanted me. Prompted by my experiences and guided -somewhat by my shrewd and cynical friend Bob Armitage, -I had been giving no small amount of spare time -to observing and thinking about the American woman. -And while I admired that charming lady and found her -an amusing companion for an occasional leisure hour, -I saw that she was not to be taken seriously by a serious -person. She knew how to look well, how to make -a good “front,” how to get perhaps a hundred dollars -worth of pleasing surface results by squandering a -thousand or two thousand dollars. As an ornament,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_445">[445]</span> -a decoration, as a basket of rare inedible fruit to irradiate -lovely costliness, she could not be beaten. As wife -to a showy plutocrat, ignorant of the art of comfortable -living, as head mistress to an European noble with -servants trained to maintain his state in splendid and -orderly discomfort, she would do excellently well. But -not for the practical uses of sensible life. She had no -training for them, no taste for them, no intention of -adapting herself to them, whatever she might pretend -in order to catch a bill-payer.</p> - -<p>Still, I did not despair. I dared not despair. If I -had, loneliness—and heartache, yes, heartache—and -my sense of present and future futility would have become -intolerable. On the other hand, while there was -every reason for haste—when happiness was my goal, -and life is short and uncertain—I was resolved to be -deliberate. If I should be deceived—perhaps by the -girl’s honest self-deception—into choosing wrong, how -she would hate me! For not again would, or could I -let a woman use me as Edna had used me. A fool is a -grown-up person who has never grown up. I had -grown up—had become a definite person, knowing what -I wanted and what I did not want. Such persons are -hated by those who try in vain to use them. My one -chance lay in finding a woman with the same definite -tastes as mine. Only disaster could come through the -woman who might marry me, pretending to agree with -me and secretly resolved to “redeem” me once she got -me firmly in her grasp.</p> - -<p>Armitage was back in New York, was eager to resume -our old relations. But that could not be. I had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_446">[446]</span> -outgrown him. And he, at the dangerous age, was allowing -himself to harden into all the habits of the rich -class and of middle life. Despite his efforts to conceal -it, I saw that he had even reached the pass where a -man of property regards a new idea as a menace to -society. If it is a new invention, it may make some -stock he owns worthless. If it is a new social or political -idea it may make his laborers demand higher wages, -or in some other way affect his dividends. And, of -course, whenever a man speaks of a menace to society, -he means a menace to himself whom he naturally regards -as the most precious and vital thread in the -social fabric. Compelled by my need for ideas to -occupy me in supplement to the now thoroughly familiar -and rather monotonous routine of investing and -reinvesting, organizing and reorganizing, I was associating -more and more with artists and writers of -the sort who feel suffocated in the society of the merely -rich.</p> - -<p>Material conditions force upon men inexorable modes -of life. And every mode of life breeds a definite, distinct -set of ideas. Men fancy themselves original because -they suddenly discover certain ideas in their -brains. As well might a hen who has just eaten hot bran -fancy herself original because she laid an egg. The idea -was not from the man, but from his material conditions—lawyer -idea, politician idea, banker idea, anarchist -idea, big or little merchant idea, dog-fighter idea, professor -idea, preacher idea, and so on. I was fighting to -escape this to me repellent molding process—and I was -making headway. But poor Armitage was rapidly yielding;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_447">[447]</span> -his struggle, I fear, had been in its best days in -large part a brassy make-believe—the valor of the trumpet, -not of the sword.</p> - -<p>He was a sorry sight. His once handsome face was -taking on that petty, pinched, frost-bitten Fifth Avenue -expression. And he had been driven for companionship -into forming the familiar parasite circle. The chief -figures in it were a decaying dandy of an old New York -family who had been fawner and crumb snapper all his -days, and a broken-down plutocrat who had squandered -his fortune on fine women, fine wine, and fine food. The -dandy gave Bob the fashionable gossip; the broken-down -plutocrat gave him the gossip and scandal of the -giddy part of town, also the latest gamey stories; also -he—perhaps both—arranged for him the peculiar pleasures -of the rich man with the palate that needs strong -sensations to make it respond.</p> - -<p>Armitage was out of the question for me. Then——</p> - -<p>I drifted into the Amsterdam Club one evening—to -write a note or send a telegram—and there sat Hartley -Beechman. The instant he saw me he sprang up and -made straight for me. His expression was puzzling, but -not hostile—still, I was unobtrusively ready. Said he -in a straight, frank fashion:</p> - -<p>“Loring, I want to apologize to you. I made a -damned ass of myself in Green Park last summer. My -excuse is that I was more than half crazy——”</p> - -<p>I put out my hand. “I half guessed at the time,” -said I. “I know all about it now.”</p> - -<p>We looked at each other with the friendliness that -has become the stronger by a mended break—for broken<span class="pagenum" id="Page_448">[448]</span> -hearts and broken lives and broken friendships are much -the stronger if the break mends. Said he:</p> - -<p>“One way of measuring the strength of a man is the -length of the intervals between the times when he makes -a fool of himself about a woman. My first came at -eighteen, my next at thirty-eight. Not a bad showing, -I flatter myself—eh?”</p> - -<p>“Uncommonly good,” said I.</p> - -<p>“And the second shall be the last.”</p> - -<p>“Optimism!” I warned him laughingly. “Beware -of optimism!”</p> - -<p>“No. I shall write about women, but I’ll see no more -of them. I’ve got hold of myself again. I’m as good -as ever—better than ever, probably. But—it cost! And -I’ll not pay that price again. For a while I thought it -was you who had upset my happiness. Then—” He -gave a loud, unnatural laugh—“That German purchase! -I saw she had been simply playing with me. You know -how fond women of that sort are of playing with romantic -or sentimental ideas. But when it came to the test—why, -she would have married only a fortune or a title.”</p> - -<p>I made no comment. He was saying only what I -thought, what I believed true. But I hated to hear it.</p> - -<p>“I may wrong her,” pursued he reflectively. “Not -altogether, but to a certain extent. I rather think the -impulse to something saner and less vulgar was there—actually -there.”</p> - -<p>As he was looking at me inquiringly I said: “I -think so.”</p> - -<p>“But—nothing came of it. And there’s little in -these fine impulses of which nothing comes.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_449">[449]</span>“Little?” laughed I. “Why, they produce the most -beautiful decorative effects. Life would be barren without -them. What a repulsive sight the poor little human -animal would be, grunting and grubbing about, thinking -always of its beloved self—what a repulsive sight if it -didn’t wear the flowers of high ideals in its ears—and -the jewels of fine impulses ringed in its nose.”</p> - -<p>“<i>I</i> think it would look better without them,” said he. -“Less ridiculous—less contemptible.”</p> - -<p>“To you—yes. Because you’re like I am—coarse. -But not to itself and its fellows.”</p> - -<p>“I’m going back to the woods to-morrow,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Better come on a yachting trip to South America -with me,” said I.</p> - -<p>He flushed. “Thank you—but I can’t do that,” replied -he. “I can’t afford it.”</p> - -<p>It was my turn to flush. “I beg your pardon,” I -said. “I spoke without thinking—spoke on impulse. -You are quite right.”</p> - -<p>“A man’s a fool or a sycophant who goes where he -can’t pay his own way,” continued he. “I’ve come to -realize that. I’ll do it no more. I’ll stick to my own -class. I’ve been justly punished for blundering out of -it. But not so severely punished as I should have been -had my—” he smiled ironically—“my love affair prospered.”</p> - -<p>He thought for several minutes, then he said: “I -wonder—when the clash came—would I have gone with -her or she with me?”</p> - -<p>I did not reply.</p> - -<p>He pulled himself together, smiled mockingly at his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_450">[450]</span> -own folly of lingering near the unsightly and not too -aromatic corpse. “I must get into the woods and -breathe it out of my system. Did you see the account -of the arrangements for her approaching marriage in -this evening’s paper? Nearly a page—and I read every -line.”</p> - -<p>When he had finished his drink he rose and departed—and -I have not talked with him since. He resumed his -career; we all know how brilliant it is. As I have said -before, I have no sympathy with the silly notion, bruited -about by silly flabby people that women ruin the lives -of strong men. Now and then a woman may be the -proverbial last straw that breaks the camel’s back. But -there’s a vast difference between woman the actuality, -woman the mere last straw, and woman the vampire, the -scarlet destroyer as portrayed in novels and so-called -histories. Those mighty men, made or ruined by women—why -do we never <i>see</i> them, why do we only read about -them?</p> - -<p>I resisted the temptation to follow Beechman’s example -and read the newspaper account of Mary Kirkwood’s -approaching apotheosis into the heaven that is -the dream of all true American ladies. There is but -one way to do a thing—and that is to do it. I had -destroyed or sent back the letters; I had resisted the telegram. -I could not yet bar my mind from wandering to -her. But I could avoid leading it to her—and I did. -So it was by accident that, the following week, I one -morning let my eye take in the whole of a four-line newspaper -paragraph before I realized what it was about. -The purport was that the engagement between Count<span class="pagenum" id="Page_451">[451]</span> -von Tilzer-Borgfeldt and Mrs. Kirkwood had been -broken off because of a “failure to agree as to settlements.” -This, in the same newspaper that contained -two columns descriptive of the quietly gorgeous marriage -of Frascatoni and Edna in my son-in-law’s new -house near London.</p> - -<p>“Failure to agree as to settlements—” Faugh!</p> - -<p>I had calmed until all my anger against her was -gone and I was thinking of her as merely human, as the -result of her environment like everyone else. I believed -now that where she had deceived me she had also deceived -herself. And I saw as clearly as in the days of -my infatuation that she and I had been made for each -other, that our coming together had been one of those -rare meetings of two who are entirely congenial. It -filled me with sadness that fate had not been kind instead -of sardonically cruel, had not brought us together ten -years earlier, before the world had poisoned her originally -simple and sincere nature. But how absurd to -linger over impossible might-have-beens! I had gone as -far as I cared to go in the company of those who have -made fools of themselves for love.</p> - -<p>I believed I could trust myself with her in the same -neighborhood. But I was not sure, and I would take no -chance. A few days after I read of the broken engagement -I departed on the yachting trip to South America.</p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_452">[452]</span> - -<h2 class="nobreak">XIV</h2> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">There</span> were but two in my party—Dugdale, the -playwright, and myself. A more amusing man than -Dugdale never lived. He was amusing both consciously -and unconsciously. A mountain of a man—bone and -muscle, little fat. He had eyes that were large, but -were so habitually squinted, the better to see every detail -of everything, that they seemed small; and his expression, -severe to the verge of savageness, changed the -instant he spoke into childlike simplicity and good humor. -He made money easily—large sums of money—for -he had the talent for success. But he spent long -before he made. I think it must have been his secret -ambition to owe everybody in the world—except his -friends. From a friend he never borrowed. The general -belief was that he had never paid back a loan—and -I have no reason to doubt it. What did he do with -his borrowings? Loaned them to his friends who were -hard up. If the list of those he owed was long, the list -of those who owed him was longer. If he never paid -back, neither was he ever paid.</p> - -<p>He could work at sea, or anywhere else—no doubt -even in a balloon. On that trip he toiled prodigiously, -crouched over a foolish little table in his cabin, smoking -endless cigarettes and setting down with incredible rapidity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_453">[453]</span> -illegible words in a tiny writing that contrasted grotesquely -with the enormous hand holding the pencil. He -labored altogether at night, after I had gone to bed. -He was always astir before me. He slept unbelievably -little, probably kept up on the quantities of whisky he -drank. However that may be, he was as active by day -physically as he was mentally by night. He was all -over the boat, always finding something to do—something -for me as well as for himself.</p> - -<p>The only terms on which Dugdale would consent to -go were that I should keep him away from New York not -less than two months, and that I should take no one else. -I promptly assented to both conditions. It was not the -first time he had put me under a heavy debt of gratitude -for congenial society. We had made several long trips -together, always with satisfaction on both sides. Whatever -else you may think of me, I hope I have at least convinced -you that I am not one of those rich men who rely -for consideration upon their wealth. I believe I am one -of the few rich men who can justly claim that distinction. -When I ask a man less well off than I am to dine with me—or -to accept my hospitality in any way—I ask him -because I want him. And I do not either directly or indirectly -try to make him feel that he is being honored. I -would not ask the sort of man who feels honored by -being in the society of bank accounts or of any other -glittering symbols in substitute for good-fellowship.</p> - -<p>You will see, gentle reader, that my list was short -indeed.</p> - -<p>It is one of the not few drawbacks of riches that -they rouse the instinct of cupidity in nearly all human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_454">[454]</span> -beings. The rich man glances round at a circle of constrained -faces, each more or less unsuccessfully striving -to veil from him the glistening eye and the watery lip -of the gold hunger. Probably you know how pepsin is -got for the market—how they pen pigs so that their -snouts almost touch food which they can by no straining -and struggling reach; how the unhappy creatures soon -begin to drip, then to slobber, then to stream into the -receiving trough under their jaws the pepsin which the -sight of the food starts their stomachs to secreting. As -I have looked at the parasite circles of some of my friends -I have often been reminded of the pepsin pigs. Some of -my friends like these displays, encourage them in every -way, associate solely with pepsin pigs. I confess I have -never acquired the least taste for that sort of entertainment.</p> - -<p>I have traveled the world over, and everywhere I -have found men either industriously engaged in cringing -or looking hopefully about for some one to cringe -to them. Well—what of it?</p> - -<p>I owe Dugdale a debt I cannot hope to repay. He, -a light-hearted philosopher, made me light-hearted. He -kept my sense of humor and my sense of proportion -constantly active. There is a stripe of philosopher of -the light-hearted variety who lets his perception of the -fundamental futility of life and all that therein is discourage -him from everything but cynical laughter at -himself and at the world. That sort is a shallow ass, -fit company for no one but the bleary, blowsy wrecks -to whose level he rapidly sinks. Dugdale—and I—were -of the other school. We did not—at least, not habitually—exaggerate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_455">[455]</span> -our own importance. It caused no -swelling of the head in him that his name was known -wherever people went to the theater, or in me that I -usually had to be taken into account when they did anything -important in finance. We did not measure the -world or rank its inhabitants according to the silly -standards in general use. But at the same time we -appreciated that to work and to work well was the only -sensible way to pass the few swift years assigned us.</p> - -<p>It takes a serious man to make even a good joke. A -frivolous person can do nothing. That is why so many -of our American women, and so many of the men, too, -sink into insignificance as soon as the first freshness of -youth is gone from them. Youth has charm simply as -youth because it seems to be a brilliant promise. When -the promise goes to protest the charm vanishes.</p> - -<p>I shall reserve what I saw and heard in South America -for another volume, one of a different kind. I shall -go forward to the following spring when I was once -more in New York. Edna and her daughter—so I read -in the newspapers—were living in fitting estate in a famous -villa they had taken in the fashionable part of the -south of France, “for the health of the two young sons -of the marchioness.” Frascatoni was gambling at Monte -Carlo, Crossley was at his government post in London. -I could fill in the tiresome details for both the wives and -the husbands—and so, probably, can you. While some -business matters were settling, I was turning over in my -mind plans for making a systematic search for a wife.</p> - -<p>I count on your amusement confidently, gentle reader. -If you wished a fresh egg for your breakfast or a suit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_456">[456]</span> -of clothes to be worn a few weeks and discarded, or an -automobile, you would set about getting it with some -attention to the best ways and means. But, saturated -as you are with silly sentimentalities about marriage, -you believe that the most important matter in the world—the -matter which determines your own happiness or unhappiness -and also the current of posterity—you believe -that such a matter should be left to the lottery of chance! -Well, I had long since abandoned that delusion, and I -purposed to establish my life with as much thought and -care as I gave all other matters.</p> - -<p>“A dull fellow,” you are saying. “No wonder his -wife fled from him.”</p> - -<p>I do not wonder that you regard as dull anything -that is intelligent. To ignorance intelligence must necessarily -seem dull. When any subject of real interest is -brought up, some silly, empty-headed pretty woman is -sure to say, “How dull! Let’s talk of something interesting.” -And there will always be a chorus of laughing -assent—because the woman is pretty. So I accept your -sneer at me with a certain pleasure. I wish to be thought -dull by some people, including some women very good to -look at. But out of vanity and in fairness to Edna I -must acquit her of having thought me dull—after she -had been about the world.</p> - -<p>One evening at the Federal Club I fell in with my -old acquaintance, Sam Cauldwell, the fashionable physician. -He was something more than that—or had been—but -was too lazy to use his mind when his gift for sympathetic -and flattering gab brought him in plenty of -money. Cauldwell was a trained, thoroughgoing sycophant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_457">[457]</span> -and snob. But he saw the humorous aspect of the -gods he was on his knees before—and saw the humor of -his being there. He knew the kind of man I was, and -liked to take me aside and make sport of his deities for -an hour over a bottle of wine. Also—he liked the idea -of being, and of being seen, intimate with a man conspicuous -for wealth and for the social position of his -family—the ex-husband of a princess, the father of a -marchioness. Gentle reader, if you wish to see human -nature to its depth, you must occupy such a position as -mine. Believe me, you are mistaken in thinking the traits -you shamedly hide are unique. There are others like you—many -others.</p> - -<p>Cauldwell was perhaps ten years older than I, but -being a well-taken-care-of New Yorker, he passed for a -young man—which, indeed, he was. I do not regard -fifty as anything but young unless it insists upon another -estimate by looking older than it really is. I shall -assuredly be young at fifty, perhaps younger than I am -now, for I take better care of my health every year—and -I have health worth taking care of. But, as I was -about to say, Cauldwell had a meditative look that night -as we sat down to dinner together. And when he had -drunk his third glass of champagne he said:</p> - -<p>“Loring, why the devil don’t you get married?”</p> - -<p>I felt that he had something especial to say to me. -I answered indifferently, “Why don’t <i>you</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Very simple,” replied he. “Not rich enough. To -marry in New York a man must be either a pauper or -a Crœsus.”</p> - -<p>“Then marry a rich girl,” said I.</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_458">[458]</span>“I’d have done it long ago if I could,” he confessed -with a laugh. “But I’ve never been able to get at the -girls who are rich enough. Their mammas guard them -for plutocrats or titles. But you— Really, it’s a shame -for you to stay single. I know a dozen women who’re -losing sleep longing for you—for themselves, or for some -lovely young daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Pathetic,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I see that irritates you. Well—you needn’t be -alarmed. You’re famed for being about the wariest -bird in the preserves. And I know you don’t want that -kind of woman. Why not take the kind you do want?”</p> - -<p>“Where is she?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I could name a dozen,” rejoined he. “But I shan’t -name any. I have one in mind. A doctor has the best -opportunity in the world to find out about women—about -men, too—the truth about them.”</p> - -<p>I laughed. “If I wanted misinformation about -human nature,” said I, “I’d go to a doctor—or a -preacher. They’re the depositories of all the hysterical -tommyrot, all the sentimental lies that vain women and -men think out about themselves and their sex relations.”</p> - -<p>His smile was not a denial. “Yes, I’ve been rather -credulous, I’ll admit,” said he. “And men and women -do tell the most astounding whoppers about themselves. -Especially women, having trouble with their husbands. -I try not to believe, but I’m caught every once in a -while.”</p> - -<p>A gleam in his eye made me wonder whether he -wasn’t thinking of some yarn Edna had spun for him -about me. Probably. There are precious few women,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_459">[459]</span> -even among the fairly close-mouthed, who don’t take -advantage of the family doctor to indulge in the passion -for romancing.</p> - -<p>“But I wasn’t thinking of any confession,” he went -on. “Several women have confessed a secret passion -for you to me—with the hope that I’d help them. The -woman I have in mind isn’t that sort. I don’t know -that she cares anything about you. I only know that -she’s exactly the woman for you.”</p> - -<p>“Interesting,” said I.</p> - -<p>“She’s young—unusually pretty—and in a distinguished -way. She knows how to run a house as a home—and -she’s about the only woman I know in our class -who does. She’s got a good mind—not for a woman, -but for anybody. And she needs a husband and children -and a home.”</p> - -<p>He must have misunderstood the peculiar expression -of my face, for he hastened on:</p> - -<p>“Not that she’s poor. On the contrary, she’s rich. -I’d not recommend a poor girl to you. Poor girls can -think of nothing but money—naturally.”</p> - -<p>“Everybody, rich and poor, thinks of money—naturally,” -said I.</p> - -<p>“Guess you’re right,” laughed he. “But it <i>looks</i> -worse in a poor girl.”</p> - -<p>“I should say the opposite. A feeding glutton -looks worse than a feeding famished man.”</p> - -<p>“At any rate—this woman I have in mind isn’t poor. -That’s not a disadvantage, is it?”</p> - -<p>“Not a hopeless obstacle,” said I. “By the way, -what <i>are</i> her disadvantages?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_460">[460]</span>“Well—she’s been married before.”</p> - -<p>“So have I,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But, on the other hand, she has no children.”</p> - -<p>“Neither have I,” said I, without thinking. I -hastened to add, “My only child is married.”</p> - -<p>“And splendidly married,” said he with the snob’s -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>“To return to the lady,” said I dryly. “Why -don’t you marry her yourself?”</p> - -<p>He had drunk several more glasses of the champagne. -He laughed. “She wouldn’t look at <i>me</i>. She sees -straight through me. She wants a man with domestic -tastes. I’m about as fit for domestic life as a fire-engine -horse for an old maid’s phæton.”</p> - -<p>“Well—who is it?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid you’ll think she’s been at me to help -her. But, on my honor, Loring, she isn’t that sort. -We’ve talked of you. For some reason, ever since I’ve -known her—well, I’ve never seen her without thinking -of you. I often talk of you to her—not marrying talk—I’d -not dare—but in a friendly sort of way. She -listens—says nothing.”</p> - -<p>“But she is sickly,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Sickly?” he cried. He looked horrified and amazed. -“Good Lord, what gave you that notion?”</p> - -<p>“You said you saw her often.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I see. It was her brother who had the illness.”</p> - -<p>“All right. Bring her round and I’ll look her -over,” said I carelessly. And I forced a change of -subject.</p> - -<p>Had Mary Kirkwood been taking this agreeable, insidious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_461">[461]</span> -doctor into her confidence? I did not know. I -do not know. I have reasons for thinking he told the -literal truth. And yet—women are queer about -doctors. However, that’s a small matter. The thing -that impressed me, that agitated me as he talked, was -the picture he, by implication, was making of Mary -Kirkwood, alone again, and evidently absolutely unattached—living -alone in the country as when I first knew -her.</p> - -<p>I tossed and fretted away most of the hours of that -night with the result that at breakfast I resolved to leave -town again, to put the width of the continent or of the -ocean between me and temptation to folly. But one -thing and another came up to detain me. It was perhaps -ten days later that I, walking alone in the Park, as -was my habit, found myself at a turning face to face -with her. I don’t think my expression reflected credit -upon my boasted self-control. As for her—I thought -she was going to faint—and she is not one of the fainting -kind. We gazed at each other in fright and embarrassment, -and both had the same child’s impulse to -turn and fly—one, of those sensible, natural instincts -for the shortest way out of difficult situations that the -cowardly conventionality of the grown-up estate makes -it impossible to obey. But—we had to do something. -So, we laughed.</p> - -<p>She put out her hand; I took it. “How well you -are looking,” said I—and it was the truth.</p> - -<p>“You, too,” said she.</p> - -<p>I turned to walk with her. We strolled along cheerfully -and contentedly, talking of the early spring, of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_462">[462]</span> -flowers, and birds, and such neutral matters. I was -fluent, she no less so. Our agitation disappeared; our -sense of congeniality returned. Our acquaintance -seemed to have lumped back to where it was before we -had that first confidential talk together on the yacht. -After perhaps an hour, as agreeable an hour as I ever -spent, she said she must go home, as she had an engagement. -On the way to the Sixty-fifth Street entrance -the conversation lagged somewhat. We were both -busily resolving the same thing—the matter of explanations. -Now that I was seeing her again—a wholly different -matter from inspecting my defaced and smirched -and battered image of her—battered by the blows of my -jealousy, and anger, and scorn—now that I was seeing -<i>her</i> again, I could not but see and feel that she was in -reality a sweet and simple and attractive woman. No -doubt she had her faults—as all of us have—grave -faults of inheritance, of education, of environment. But -who was I that I should sit in judgment on her? I -realized that I had judged her unjustly so far as -her treatment of me was concerned. Assuming that -she was tainted with snobbishness, assuming that her -defects were as bad as I had thought in my worst -paroxysms, still that did not alter the charms and the -fine qualities.</p> - -<p>“We are friends?” said I abruptly.</p> - -<p>“I hope so,” said she. She added: “I know so.”</p> - -<p>“Without discussion or explanation?”</p> - -<p>“That is best—don’t you think?” replied she. “I -am—not—not proud of some things I did.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I, of some things I did.”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_463">[463]</span>“I should like to forget them—my own and yours.”</p> - -<p>“I, too. And explanations do not explain. Let -sleeping dogs lie.”</p> - -<p>She smiled and nodded. She said:</p> - -<p>“The latter part of the week I’m going back to the -country. Perhaps you’ll spend Saturday and Sunday -there?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” said I. “Let me know at the -Federal Club if your plans change.”</p> - -<p>At her door we shook hands, but both lingered. -Said she:</p> - -<p>“I am glad we are friends again.”</p> - -<p>“It was inevitable,” I replied. “We <i>like</i> each -other too well not to have come round. Bitternesses -and enmities are stupid.”</p> - -<p>“And sad,” said she.</p> - -<p>When we met again—at her house in the country—there -was no constraint on either side. We knew that -neither of us had the power to breach, much less to remove, -the barrier between us. We ignored its existence—and -were content.</p> - -<p>You may have observed that I have rarely been able -to speak of Edna without resentment. I shall now tell -you why:</p> - -<p>The friendship between Mary Kirkwood and me presently -set the newspaper gossips to talking. Our engagement -was announced again and again—the announcement -always a pretext for rehashing the story of the matrimonial -bankruptcy through which each had passed. But as -we were above the reach of the missiles of the scandalmongers -the worst that was printed produced only a slight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_464">[464]</span> -and brief irritation. This until the Princess Frascatoni -began her campaign of slander.</p> - -<p>I shall not go into it. I shall simply say that she -ordered one of her hangers-on—one of the semi-literary -parasites to be found in the train of every rich person—to -attack Mary and me as keeping up an intrigue of -long standing, the one that was the real cause of my -wife’s divorcing me. When I read the first of these -articles I believed, from certain details, that no one in the -world but the Princess Frascatoni could have inspired it. -But with my habitual caution I leashed my impetuous -anger and did not condemn her until I had investigated. -Is it not strange, is it not the irony of fate that in every -serious crisis of my life, except one, I should have had -coolness and self-control, and that the one exception -should have been when I loved Mary Kirkwood and condemned -her unheard? After all, I am not sure that love -isn’t a kind of lunacy.</p> - -<p>Why did Edna engage in that campaign of slander? -Why did she say to everyone from this side the most malicious, -the most mendacious things about my relations -with Mrs. Kirkwood—that she had ignored the intrigue -as long as she could for the sake of her dear daughter; -that it had driven her from New York, had forced her to -get a divorce, and so on through the gamut of malignant -lying? There may perhaps be a clew to the mystery in -the failure of her second marriage—as a marriage, I -mean; not, of course, as a social enterprise, for there it -was a world-renowned success. If the clew is not in -Edna’s emptiness of heart and boredom, then I can suggest -no explanation. I imagine she had been hearing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_465">[465]</span> -and reading the gossip about an impending marriage -between Mrs. Kirkwood and me until she had concluded -that there must be truth in it—and by outrageous slander -she hoped to make it impossible.</p> - -<p>The first effect was as she had probably calculated. -Mary and I avoided each other. Mary hid herself and -would see no one. Armitage and I for a time kept up a -pretense of close friendship, or, rather, publicly again -pretended a friendship that had long since all but ceased. -But when the talk both in the newspapers and among our -acquaintances grew until the “at last uncovered scandal” -was the chief topic of gossip, he and I almost -stopped speaking. You may wonder why he or I or both -of us did not “do something” to crush the absurd lie. -Gentle reader, did you ever try to kill a scandal? It is -done in novels and on the stage; but in life the silly ass -who draws his sword and attacks a pestilent fog accomplishes -nothing—beyond attracting more attention to the -fog by his absurd and futile gesticulations. The world -had made up its nasty little mind that the relations between -Mary Kirkwood, divorced, and Godfrey Loring, -divorced, were not, and for years had not been, what they -should be. And the matter was settled. I think Armitage -himself believed. I know Beechman believed, for he -pointedly crossed the street to avoid speaking to me.</p> - -<p>I stood this for a month. Then I went down to -Mary’s place on Long Island.</p> - -<p>You may imagine the excitement my coming caused -among the honest yeomanry gathered at the station—those -worthy folk who peep and pry into the business of -their fashionable overlords, and are learning to cringe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_466">[466]</span> -like English peasants. I found Mary setting out for a -ride—through her own grounds; she was ashamed to venture -abroad. I came upon her abruptly. Instead of the -terror and aversion I had steeled myself to meet, I got -a radiance of welcome that made my heart leap. But -in an instant she had remembered and was almost in a -panic.</p> - -<p>“Please send the groom away with the horse,” said -I. “Let us walk up and down here before the house.”</p> - -<p>She hesitated, obeyed.</p> - -<p>The broad space before the house was laid out in -hedges and blooming beds with a long, straight drive -leading in one direction to the highroad, in the other -direction to stable, carriage house, and garage. When -we were securely alone I said:</p> - -<p>“Have you missed me?”</p> - -<p>“Our friendship meant a lot to me,” replied she.</p> - -<p>“I have discovered that it’s the principal thing in -my life,” said I.</p> - -<p>We paced the length of the drive toward the lodge in -silence. As we turned toward the house again I said:</p> - -<p>“I have chartered the largest yacht I could get—for -a cruise round the world.”</p> - -<p>A pause, then she in a constrained voice: “When do -you start?”</p> - -<p>“Immediately,” I answered. “Perhaps to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>She halted, leaned against a tree, and gazed out -through the shrubbery.</p> - -<p>“You’ve not been well?” said I.</p> - -<p>“I never am, when I lose interest in life,” replied she. -“You will be gone—long?”</p> - - - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_467">[467]</span>“Long,” said I. “Either we shall not see each other -again for years—or—” I paused.</p> - -<p>After a wait of fully a minute she looked inquiringly -at me.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” said I, “shall we take a motor launch and -go over to Connecticut and be married?”</p> - -<p>She began to walk again, I keeping pace with her. -“It’s the only sensible thing to do,” said I. “It’s the -only way out of this mess. And to-morrow we’ll sail -away and not come back until—until we are good and -ready.”</p> - -<p>I waited a moment, then went on, and I had the -feeling that I was saying what we were both thinking: -“We’ve had the same experience—have been through -the same bankruptcy. It has taught us, I think—I hope—I -can’t be sure; human nature learns slowly and badly. -But I see a good chance for us—not to be utterly and -always blissfully happy, but to get far more out of life -than either is getting—or could get alone.”</p> - -<p>As we turned at the group of outbuildings she looked -at me and I at her—a look straight into each other’s -souls. And then and there was born that which alone -can make a marriage successful or a life worth the living. -What is the difference between friendship and love? -I had thought—and said—that love was friendship in -bloom. But as Mary and I looked at each other, I knew -the full truth. Love is friendship set on fire. We did -not speak. We glanced hastily away. At the front -door she halted. In a quiet, awed voice she said:</p> - -<p>“I’ll change from this riding suit.”</p> - -<p>And what did I say, gentle reader, to commemorate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_468">[468]</span> -our standing upon holy ground? I did no better than -she. With eyes uncertain and voice untrustworthy and -hoarse I said:</p> - -<p>“And tell your maid to pack and go to town with -the trunks—go to the landing at East Twenty-third -Street. Can she be there by four or five this afternoon?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Then I’ll see you at the bay—at the launch wharf—in -half an hour? I’ve got to send off a telegram.”</p> - -<p>“In half an hour,” said she, and with a grave smile -and a wave of her crop she disappeared into the house.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>At seven that evening we steamed past Sandy Hook. -At ten—after an almost silent dinner—we were on deck, -leaning side by side at the rail, near the bow. We were -alone on the calm and shining sea. No land in sight, -not a steamer, not a sail—not a sign of human existence -beyond the rail of our yacht. Her arm slipped within -mine; my hand sought hers. Not a sail, not a streamer -of smoke. Alone and free and together.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I forgive you, gentle reader. Go in peace.</p> - - -<p class="center">THE END</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph1">TITLES SELECTED FROM</p> - - -<p class="ph3">GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST</p> - -<p class="center">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="u">THE SECOND WIFE.</span> By Thompson Buchanan. Illustrated -by W. W. Fawcett. Harrison Fisher wrapper printed in four -colors and gold.</p> - - -<p>An intensely interesting story of a marital complication in -a wealthy New York family involving the happiness of a -beautiful young girl.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">TESS OF THE STORM COUNTRY.</span> By Grace Miller White. -Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.</p> - - -<p>An amazingly vivid picture of low class life in a New -York college town, with a heroine beautiful and noble, who makes -a great sacrifice for love.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">FROM THE VALLEY OF THE MISSING.</span> By Grace Miller -White. Frontispiece and wrapper in colors by Penrhyn Stanlaws.</p> - - -<p>Another story of “the storm country.” Two beautiful children -are kidnapped from a wealthy home and appear many years -after showing the effects of a deep, malicious scheme behind -their disappearance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE LIGHTED MATCH.</span> By Charles Neville Buck. Illustrated -by R. F. Schabelitz.</p> - - -<p>A lovely princess travels incognito through the States and -falls in love with an American man. There are ties that bind her -to someone in her own home, and the great plot revolves round -her efforts to work her way out.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">MAUD BAXTER.</span> By C. C. Hotchkiss. Illustrated by Will -Grefe.</p> - - -<p>A romance both daring and delightful, involving an American -girl and a young man who had been impressed into English -service during the Revolution.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE HIGHWAYMAN.</span> By Guy Rawlence. Illustrated by -Will Grefe.</p> - - -<p>A French beauty of mysterious antecedents wins the love -of an Englishman of title. Developments of a startling character -and a clever untangling of affairs hold the reader’s interest.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE PURPLE STOCKINGS.</span> By Edward Salisbury Field. -Illustrated in colors; marginal illustrations.</p> - - -<p>A young New York business man, his pretty sweetheart, -his sentimental stenographer, and his fashionable sister are all -mixed up in a misunderstanding that surpasses anything in the -way of comedy in years. A story with a laugh on every page.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3"><small>A FEW OF</small><br /> -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S<br /> -Great Books at Little Prices</p> -</div> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>WHEN A MAN MARRIES. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. -Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.</p> - - -<p>A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that -a visit is due from his Aunt Selina, an elderly lady having ideas -about things quite apart from the Bohemian set in which her -nephew is a shining light. The way in which matters are temporarily -adjusted forms the motif of the story.</p> - -<p>A farcical extravaganza, dramatised under the title of “Seven Days.”</p> - - - -<p>THE FASHIONABLE ADVENTURES OF JOSHUA -CRAIG. By David Graham Phillips. Illustrated.</p> - - -<p>A young westerner, uncouth and unconventional, appears in -political and social life in Washington. He attains power in politics, -and a young woman of the exclusive set becomes his wife, undertaking -his education in social amenities.</p> - - -<p>“DOC.” GORDON. By Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman. Illustrated -by Frank T. Merrill.</p> - - -<p>Against the familiar background of American town life, the -author portrays a group of people strangely involved in a mystery. -“Doc.” Gordon, the one physician of the place, D. Elliot, his -assistant, a beautiful woman and her altogether charming daughter -are all involved in the plot. A novel of great interest.</p> - - - -<p>HOLY ORDERS. By Marie Corelli.</p> - - -<p>A dramatic story, in which is pictured a clergyman in touch with -society people, stage favorites, simple, common village folk, powerful financiers -and others, each presenting vital problems to this man “in -holy orders”—problems that we are now struggling with in America.</p> - - - -<p>KATRINE. By Elinor Macartney Lane. With frontispiece.</p> - - -<p>Katrine, the heroine of this story, is a lovely Irish girl, of lowly -birth, but gifted with a beautiful voice.</p> - -<p>The narrative is based on the facts of an actual singer’s career, -and the viewpoint throughout is a most exalted one.</p> - - - -<p>THE FORTUNES OF FIFI. By Molly Elliot Seawell. -Illustrated by T. de Thulstrup.</p> - -<p>A story of life in France at the time of the first Napoleon. Fifi, -a glad, mad little actress of eighteen, is the star performer in a third -rate Parisian theatre. A story as dainty as a Watteau painting.</p> - - -<p>SHE THAT HESITATES. By Harris Dickson. Illustrated -by C. W. Relyea.</p> - - -<p>The scene of this dashing romance shifts from Dresden to St. -Petersburg in the reign of Peter the Great, and then to New Orleans.</p> - -<p>The hero is a French Soldier of Fortune, and the princess, who -hesitates—but you must read the story to know how she that hesitates -may be lost and yet saved.</p> -</div> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3"><small>TITLES SELECTED FROM</small><br /> -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S LIST</p> -</div> - -<p class="center">REALISTIC, ENGAGING PICTURES OF LIFE</p> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>THE GARDEN OF FATE. By Roy Norton. Illustrated -by Joseph Clement Coll.</p> - - -<p>The colorful romance of an American girl in Morocco, and -of a beautiful garden, whose beauty and traditions of strange -subtle happenings were closed to the world by a Sultan’s seal.</p> - - - -<p>THE MAN HIGHER UP. By Henry Russell Miller. -Full page vignette illustrations by M. Leone Bracker.</p> - - -<p>The story of a tenement waif who rose by his own ingenuity -to the office of mayor of his native city. His experiences -while “climbing,” make a most interesting example of the -possibilities of human nature to rise above circumstances.</p> - - - -<p>THE KEY TO YESTERDAY. By Charles Neville -Buck. Illustrated by R. Schabelitz.</p> - - -<p>Robert Saxon, a prominent artist, has an accident, while in -Paris, which obliterates his memory, and the only clue he has -to his former life is a rusty key. What door in Paris will it -unlock? He must know that before he woos the girl he loves.</p> - - - -<p>THE DANGER TRAIL. By James Oliver Curwood. -Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.</p> - - -<p>The danger trail is over the snow-smothered North. A -young Chicago engineer, who is building a road through the -Hudson Bay region, is involved in mystery, and is led into -ambush by a young woman.</p> - - - -<p>THE GAY LORD WARING. By Houghton Townley. -Illustrated by Will Grefe.</p> - - -<p>A story of the smart hunting set in England. A gay young -lord wins in love against his selfish and cowardly brother and -apparently against fate itself.</p> - - - -<p>BY INHERITANCE. By Octave Thanet. Illustrated -by Thomas Fogarty. Elaborate wrapper in colors.</p> - - -<p>A wealthy New England spinster with the most elaborate -plans for the education of the negro goes to visit her nephew -in Arkansas, where she learns the needs of the colored race -first hand and begins to lose her theories.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3"><small>A FEW OF</small><br /> -GROSSET & DUNLAP’S<br /> -Great Books at Little Prices</p> -</div> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. A Picture of New -England Home Life. With illustrations by C. W. -Reed, and Scenes Reproduced from the Play.</p> - - -<p>One of the best New England stories ever written. It is -full of homely human interest * * * there is a wealth of New -England village character, scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, -vividly and truthfully drawn. Few books have enjoyed a -greater sale and popularity. Dramatized, it made the greatest -rural play of recent times.</p> - - - -<p>THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY -ADAMS SAWYER. By Charles Felton Pidgin. -Illustrated by Henry Roth.</p> - - -<p>All who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor, -and homespun philosophy will find these “Further Adventures” -a book after their own heart.</p> - - - -<p>HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated -by Herman Pfeifer.</p> - - -<p>The thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of -suspense, and he will become personally concerned from the -start, as to the central character, a very real man who suffers, -dares—and achieves!</p> - - -<p>VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert -Quick. Illustrated by William R. Leigh.</p> - - -<p>The author has seized the romantic moment for the airship -novel, and created the pretty story of “a lover and his lass” -contending with an elderly relative for the monopoly of the -skies. An exciting tale of adventure in midair.</p> - - - -<p>THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. -Ingram. Illustrated by P. D. Johnson.</p> - - -<p>The hero is a young American, who, to save his family from -poverty, deliberately commits a felony. Then follow his capture -and imprisonment, and his rescue by a Russian Grand -Duke. A stirring story, rich in sentiment.</p> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3"><small>THE NOVELS OF</small><br /> -GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>GRAUSTARK.</p> - -<p>A story of love behind a throne, telling how a young -American met a lovely girl and followed her to a new and -strange country. A thrilling, dashing narrative.</p> - - -<p>BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK.</p> - -<p>Beverly is a bewitching American girl who has gone to -that stirring little principality—Graustark—to visit her friend -the princess, and there has a romantic affair of her own.</p> - - -<p>BREWSTER’S MILLIONS.</p> - -<p>A young man is required to spend <i>one</i> million dollars in -one year in order to inherit <i>seven</i>. How he does it forms the -basis of a lively story.</p> - - -<p>CASTLE CRANEYCROW.</p> - -<p>The story revolves round the abduction of a young American -woman, her imprisonment in an old castle and the adventures -created through her rescue.</p> - - -<p>COWARDICE COURT.</p> - -<p>An amusing social feud in the Adirondacks in which an -English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic -young American, forms the plot.</p> - - -<p>THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW.</p> - -<p>The story centers about the adopted daughter of the town -marshal in a western village. Her parentage is shrouded in -mystery, and the story concerns the secret that deviously -works to the surface.</p> - - -<p>THE MAN FROM BRODNEY’S.</p> - -<p>The hero meets a princess in a far-away island among -fanatically hostile Musselmen. Romantic love-making amid -amusing situations and exciting adventures.</p> - - -<p>NEDRA.</p> - -<p>A young couple elope from Chicago to go to London -traveling as brother and sister. They are shipwrecked and a -strange mix-up occurs on account of it.</p> - - -<p>THE SHERRODS.</p> - -<p>The scene is the Middle West and centers around a man -who leads a double life. A most enthralling novel.</p> - - -<p>TRUXTON KING.</p> - -<p>A handsome good-natured young fellow ranges on the -earth looking for romantic adventures and is finally enmeshed -in most complicated intrigues in Graustark.</p> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3">KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN’S<br /> -STORIES OF PURE DELIGHT</p> - - -<p class="center">Full of originality and humor, kindliness and cheer</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="u">THE OLD PEABODY PEW.</span> Large Octavo. Decorative -text pages, printed in two colors. Illustrations by Alice -Barber Stephens.</p> - - -<p>One of the prettiest romances that has ever come from this -author’s pen is made to bloom on Christmas Eve in the sweet -freshness of an old New England meeting house.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">PENELOPE’S PROGRESS.</span> Attractive cover design in -colors.</p> - - -<p>Scotland is the background for the merry doings of three very -clever and original American girls. Their adventures in adjusting -themselves to the Scot and his land are full of humor.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">PENELOPE’S IRISH EXPERIENCES.</span> Uniform In style -<span class="u">with “Penelope’s Progress.”</span></p> - - -<p>The trio of clever girls who rambled over Scotland cross the border -to the Emerald Isle, and again they sharpen their wits against -new conditions, and revel in the land of laughter and wit.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM.</span></p> - - -<p>One of the most beautiful studies of childhood—Rebecca’s artistic, -unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle -of austere New Englanders. The stage version is making a phenomenal -dramatic record.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">NEW CHRONICLES OF REBECCA.</span> With illustrations -by F. C. Yohn.</p> - - -<p>Some more quaintly amusing chronicles that carry Rebecca -through various stages to her eighteenth birthday.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">ROSE O’ THE RIVER.</span> With illustrations by George -Wright.</p> - - -<p>The simple story of Rose, a country girl and Stephen a sturdy -young farmer. The girl’s fancy for a city man interrupts their love -and merges the story into an emotional strain where the reader follows -the events with rapt attention.</p> -</div> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3">LOUIS TRACY’S<br /> -<small>CAPTIVATING AND EXHILARATING ROMANCES</small></p> -</div> - -<p class="center">May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.</p> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="u">CYNTHIA’S CHAUFFEUR.</span> Illustrated by Howard Chandler -Christy.</p> - - -<p>A pretty American girl in London is touring in a car with -a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. An amusing mystery.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE STOWAWAY GIRL.</span> Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson.</p> - - -<p>A shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a -fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in South Seas.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS.</span></p> - - -<p>Love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands -of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE MESSAGE.</span> Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase.</p> - - -<p>A bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel -tells of a buried treasure. A thrilling mystery develops.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.</span></p> - - -<p>The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author -tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE WHEEL O’FORTUNE.</span> With illustrations by James -Montgomery Flagg.</p> - - -<p>The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing -the particulars of some of the treasures of the Queen of Sheba.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">A SON OF THE IMMORTALS.</span> Illustrated by Howard -Chandler Christy.</p> - - -<p>A young American is proclaimed king of a little Balkan -Kingdom, and a pretty Parisian art student is the power behind -the throne.</p> - - - -<p><span class="u">THE WINGS OF THE MORNING.</span></p> - - -<p>A sort of Robinson Crusoe <i>redivivus</i> with modern settings -and a very pretty love story added. The hero and heroine, are -the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures -on their desert island.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</i></p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph3">B. M. Bower’s Novels<br /> -<small>Thrilling Western Romances</small></p> - - -<p class="center">Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated</p> -</div> - - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p><span class="u">CHIP, OF THE FLYING U</span></p> - -<p>A breezy, wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and -Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip’s -jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue-eyed -young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of -the American Cow-puncher.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE HAPPY FAMILY</span></p> - -<p>A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of -eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst -them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative -powers cause many lively and exciting adventures.</p> - -<p><span class="u">HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT</span></p> - -<p>A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners -who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness -of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the -fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living -breathing personalities.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE RANGE DWELLERS</span></p> - -<p>Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. -Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo -and Juliet courtship makes this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, -without a dull page.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS</span></p> - -<p>A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, -among the cowboys of the West, in search of “local color” for a new -novel. “Bud” Thurston learns many a lesson while following -“the lure of the dim trails” but the hardest, and probably the most -welcome, is that of love.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE LONESOME TRAIL</span></p> - -<p>“Weary” Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional -city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, -pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of -a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome -love story.</p> - -<p><span class="u">THE LONG SHADOW</span></p> - -<p>A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, -life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play -the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from -start to finish.</p> -</div> - -<p class="center">Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction.</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">GROSSETT</span> & <span class="smcap">DUNLAP, 526 West 26th St., New York</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<div class="transnote"> -<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p> - - - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p> - -<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p> - -<p>Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HUSBAND’S STORY ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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