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diff --git a/9190-h/9190-h.htm b/9190-h/9190-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8409fe4 --- /dev/null +++ b/9190-h/9190-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7782 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!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" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Greater Inclination, by Edith Wharton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Greater Inclination, by Edith Wharton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Greater Inclination + +Author: Edith Wharton + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9190] +This file was first posted on September 13, 2003 +Last Updated: October 3, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREATER INCLINATION *** + + + + +Produced by Anne Soulard, Tiffany Vergon and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE GREATER INCLINATION + </h1> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE MUSE’S TRAGEDY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A JOURNEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE PELICAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> SOULS BELATED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A COWARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE TWILIGHT OF THE GOD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> A CUP OF COLD WATER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE PORTRAIT </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <h1> + THE GREATER INCLINATION + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MUSE’S TRAGEDY + </h2> + <p> + Danyers afterwards liked to fancy that he had recognized Mrs. Anerton at + once; but that, of course, was absurd, since he had seen no portrait of + her—she affected a strict anonymity, refusing even her photograph to + the most privileged—and from Mrs. Memorall, whom he revered and + cultivated as her friend, he had extracted but the one impressionist + phrase: “Oh, well, she’s like one of those old prints where the lines have + the value of color.” + </p> + <p> + He was almost certain, at all events, that he had been thinking of Mrs. + Anerton as he sat over his breakfast in the empty hotel restaurant, and + that, looking up on the approach of the lady who seated herself at the + table near the window, he had said to himself, “<i>That might be she</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Ever since his Harvard days—he was still young enough to think of + them as immensely remote—Danyers had dreamed of Mrs. Anerton, the + Silvia of Vincent Rendle’s immortal sonnet-cycle, the Mrs. A. of the <i>Life + and Letters</i>. Her name was enshrined in some of the noblest English + verse of the nineteenth century—and of all past or future centuries, + as Danyers, from the stand-point of a maturer judgment, still believed. + The first reading of certain poems—of the <i>Antinous</i>, the <i>Pia + Tolomei</i>, the <i>Sonnets to Silvia</i>,—had been epochs in + Danyers’s growth, and the verse seemed to gain in mellowness, in + amplitude, in meaning as one brought to its interpretation more experience + of life, a finer emotional sense. Where, in his boyhood, he had felt only + the perfect, the almost austere beauty of form, the subtle interplay of + vowel-sounds, the rush and fulness of lyric emotion, he now thrilled to + the close-packed significance of each line, the allusiveness of each word—his + imagination lured hither and thither on fresh trails of thought, and + perpetually spurred by the sense that, beyond what he had already + discovered, more marvellous regions lay waiting to be explored. Danyers + had written, at college, the prize essay on Rendle’s poetry (it chanced to + be the moment of the great man’s death); he had fashioned the fugitive + verse of his own storm-and-stress period on the forms which Rendle had + first given to English metre; and when two years later the <i>Life and + Letters</i> appeared, and the Silvia of the sonnets took substance as Mrs. + A., he had included in his worship of Rendle the woman who had inspired + not only such divine verse but such playful, tender, incomparable prose. + </p> + <p> + Danyers never forgot the day when Mrs. Memorall happened to mention that + she knew Mrs. Anerton. He had known Mrs. Memorall for a year or more, and + had somewhat contemptuously classified her as the kind of woman who runs + cheap excursions to celebrities; when one afternoon she remarked, as she + put a second lump of sugar in his tea: + </p> + <p> + “Is it right this time? You’re almost as particular as Mary Anerton.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary Anerton?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I never <i>can</i> remember how she likes her tea. Either it’s lemon + <i>with</i> sugar, or lemon without sugar, or cream without either, and + whichever it is must be put into the cup before the tea is poured in; and + if one hasn’t remembered, one must begin all over again. I suppose it was + Vincent Rendle’s way of taking his tea and has become a sacred rite.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you <i>know</i> Mrs. Anerton?” cried Danyers, disturbed by this + careless familiarity with the habits of his divinity. + </p> + <p> + “‘And did I once see Shelley plain?’ Mercy, yes! She and I were at school + together—she’s an American, you know. We were at a <i>pension</i> + near Tours for nearly a year; then she went back to New York, and I didn’t + see her again till after her marriage. She and Anerton spent a winter in + Rome while my husband was attached to our Legation there, and she used to + be with us a great deal.” Mrs. Memorall smiled reminiscently. “It was <i>the</i> + winter.” + </p> + <p> + “The winter they first met?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely—but unluckily I left Rome just before the meeting took + place. Wasn’t it too bad? I might have been in the <i>Life and Letters</i>. + You know he mentions that stupid Madame Vodki, at whose house he first saw + her.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you see much of her after that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not during Rendle’s life. You know she has lived in Europe almost + entirely, and though I used to see her off and on when I went abroad, she + was always so engrossed, so preoccupied, that one felt one wasn’t wanted. + The fact is, she cared only about his friends—she separated herself + gradually from all her own people. Now, of course, it’s different; she’s + desperately lonely; she’s taken to writing to me now and then; and last + year, when she heard I was going abroad, she asked me to meet her in + Venice, and I spent a week with her there.” + </p> + <p> + “And Rendle?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Memorall smiled and shook her head. “Oh, I never was allowed a peep + at <i>him</i>; none of her old friends met him, except by accident. + Ill-natured people say that was the reason she kept him so long. If one + happened in while he was there, he was hustled into Anerton’s study, and + the husband mounted guard till the inopportune visitor had departed. + Anerton, you know, was really much more ridiculous about it than his wife. + Mary was too clever to lose her head, or at least to show she’d lost it—but + Anerton couldn’t conceal his pride in the conquest. I’ve seen Mary shiver + when he spoke of Rendle as <i>our poet</i>. Rendle always had to have a + certain seat at the dinner-table, away from the draught and not too near + the fire, and a box of cigars that no one else was allowed to touch, and a + writing-table of his own in Mary’s sitting-room—and Anerton was + always telling one of the great man’s idiosyncrasies: how he never would + cut the ends of his cigars, though Anerton himself had given him a gold + cutter set with a star-sapphire, and how untidy his writing-table was, and + how the house-maid had orders always to bring the waste-paper basket to + her mistress before emptying it, lest some immortal verse should be thrown + into the dust-bin.” + </p> + <p> + “The Anertons never separated, did they?” + </p> + <p> + “Separated? Bless you, no. He never would have left Rendle! And besides, + he was very fond of his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “And she?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she saw he was the kind of man who was fated to make himself + ridiculous, and she never interfered with his natural tendencies.” + </p> + <p> + From Mrs. Memorall, Danyers further learned that Mrs. Anerton, whose + husband had died some years before her poet, now divided her life between + Rome, where she had a small apartment, and England, where she occasionally + went to stay with those of her friends who had been Rendle’s. She had been + engaged, for some time after his death, in editing some juvenilia which he + had bequeathed to her care; but that task being accomplished, she had been + left without definite occupation, and Mrs. Memorall, on the occasion of + their last meeting, had found her listless and out of spirits. + </p> + <p> + “She misses him too much—her life is too empty. I told her so—I + told her she ought to marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not, pray? She’s a young woman still—what many people would + call young,” Mrs. Memorall interjected, with a parenthetic glance at the + mirror. “Why not accept the inevitable and begin over again? All the + King’s horses and all the King’s men won’t bring Rendle to life-and + besides, she didn’t marry <i>him</i> when she had the chance.” + </p> + <p> + Danyers winced slightly at this rude fingering of his idol. Was it + possible that Mrs. Memorall did not see what an anti-climax such a + marriage would have been? Fancy Rendle “making an honest woman” of Silvia; + for so society would have viewed it! How such a reparation would have + vulgarized their past—it would have been like “restoring” a + masterpiece; and how exquisite must have been the perceptions of the woman + who, in defiance of appearances, and perhaps of her own secret + inclination, chose to go down to posterity as Silvia rather than as Mrs. + Vincent Rendle! + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Memorall, from this day forth, acquired an interest in Danyers’s + eyes. She was like a volume of unindexed and discursive memoirs, through + which he patiently plodded in the hope of finding embedded amid layers of + dusty twaddle some precious allusion to the subject of his thought. When, + some months later, he brought out his first slim volume, in which the + remodelled college essay on Rendle figured among a dozen, somewhat + overstudied “appreciations,” he offered a copy to Mrs. Memorall; who + surprised him, the next time they met, with the announcement that she had + sent the book to Mrs. Anerton. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Anerton in due time wrote to thank her friend. Danyers was privileged + to read the few lines in which, in terms that suggested the habit of + “acknowledging” similar tributes, she spoke of the author’s “feeling and + insight,” and was “so glad of the opportunity,” etc. He went away + disappointed, without clearly knowing what else he had expected. + </p> + <p> + The following spring, when he went abroad, Mrs. Memorall offered him + letters to everybody, from the Archbishop of Canterbury to Louise Michel. + She did not include Mrs. Anerton, however, and Danyers knew, from a + previous conversation, that Silvia objected to people who “brought + letters.” He knew also that she travelled during the summer, and was + unlikely to return to Rome before the term of his holiday should be + reached, and the hope of meeting her was not included among his + anticipations. + </p> + <p> + The lady whose entrance broke upon his solitary repast in the restaurant + of the Hotel Villa d’Este had seated herself in such a way that her + profile was detached against the window; and thus viewed, her domed + forehead, small arched nose, and fastidious lip suggested a silhouette of + Marie Antoinette. In the lady’s dress and movements—in the very turn + of her wrist as she poured out her coffee—Danyers thought he + detected the same fastidiousness, the same air of tacitly excluding the + obvious and unexceptional. Here was a woman who had been much bored and + keenly interested. The waiter brought her a <i>Secolo,</i> and as she bent + above it Danyers noticed that the hair rolled back from her forehead was + turning gray; but her figure was straight and slender, and she had the + invaluable gift of a girlish back. + </p> + <p> + The rush of Anglo-Saxon travel had not set toward the lakes, and with the + exception of an Italian family or two, and a hump-backed youth with an <i>abbé</i>, + Danyers and the lady had the marble halls of the Villa d’Este to + themselves. + </p> + <p> + When he returned from his morning ramble among the hills he saw her + sitting at one of the little tables at the edge of the lake. She was + writing, and a heap of books and newspapers lay on the table at her side. + That evening they met again in the garden. He had strolled out to smoke a + last cigarette before dinner, and under the black vaulting of ilexes, near + the steps leading down to the boat-landing, he found her leaning on the + parapet above the lake. At the sound of his approach she turned and looked + at him. She had thrown a black lace scarf over her head, and in this + sombre setting her face seemed thin and unhappy. He remembered afterwards + that her eyes, as they met his, expressed not so much sorrow as profound + discontent. + </p> + <p> + To his surprise she stepped toward him with a detaining gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lewis Danyers, I believe?” + </p> + <p> + He bowed. + </p> + <p> + “I am Mrs. Anerton. I saw your name on the visitors’ list and wished to + thank you for an essay on Mr. Rendle’s poetry—or rather to tell you + how much I appreciated it. The book was sent to me last winter by Mrs. + Memorall.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke in even melancholy tones, as though the habit of perfunctory + utterance had robbed her voice of more spontaneous accents; but her smile + was charming. They sat down on a stone bench under the ilexes, and she + told him how much pleasure his essay had given her. She thought it the + best in the book—she was sure he had put more of himself into it + than into any other; was she not right in conjecturing that he had been + very deeply influenced by Mr. Rendle’s poetry? <i>Pour comprendre il faut + aimer</i>, and it seemed to her that, in some ways, he had penetrated the + poet’s inner meaning more completely than any other critic. There were + certain problems, of course, that he had left untouched; certain aspects + of that many-sided mind that he had perhaps failed to seize— + </p> + <p> + “But then you are young,” she concluded gently, “and one could not wish + you, as yet, the experience that a fuller understanding would imply.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + She stayed a month at Villa d’Este, and Danyers was with her daily. She + showed an unaffected pleasure in his society; a pleasure so obviously + founded on their common veneration of Rendle, that the young man could + enjoy it without fear of fatuity. At first he was merely one more grain of + frankincense on the altar of her insatiable divinity; but gradually a more + personal note crept into their intercourse. If she still liked him only + because he appreciated Rendle, she at least perceptibly distinguished him + from the herd of Rendle’s appreciators. + </p> + <p> + Her attitude toward the great man’s memory struck Danyers as perfect. She + neither proclaimed nor disavowed her identity. She was frankly Silvia to + those who knew and cared; but there was no trace of the Egeria in her + pose. She spoke often of Rendle’s books, but seldom of himself; there was + no posthumous conjugality, no use of the possessive tense, in her + abounding reminiscences. Of the master’s intellectual life, of his habits + of thought and work, she never wearied of talking. She knew the history of + each poem; by what scene or episode each image had been evoked; how many + times the words in a certain line had been transposed; how long a certain + adjective had been sought, and what had at last suggested it; she could + even explain that one impenetrable line, the torment of critics, the joy + of detractors, the last line of <i>The Old Odysseus</i>. + </p> + <p> + Danyers felt that in talking of these things she was no mere echo of + Rendle’s thought. If her identity had appeared to be merged in his it was + because they thought alike, not because he had thought for her. Posterity + is apt to regard the women whom poets have sung as chance pegs on which + they hung their garlands; but Mrs. Anerton’s mind was like some fertile + garden wherein, inevitably, Rendle’s imagination had rooted itself and + flowered. Danyers began to see how many threads of his complex mental + tissue the poet had owed to the blending of her temperament with his; in a + certain sense Silvia had herself created the <i>Sonnets to Silvia</i>. + </p> + <p> + To be the custodian of Rendle’s inner self, the door, as it were, to the + sanctuary, had at first seemed to Danyers so comprehensive a privilege + that he had the sense, as his friendship with Mrs. Anerton advanced, of + forcing his way into a life already crowded. What room was there, among + such towering memories, for so small an actuality as his? Quite suddenly, + after this, he discovered that Mrs. Memorall knew better: his fortunate + friend was bored as well as lonely. + </p> + <p> + “You have had more than any other woman!” he had exclaimed to her one day; + and her smile flashed a derisive light on his blunder. Fool that he was, + not to have seen that she had not had enough! That she was young still—do + years count?—tender, human, a woman; that the living have need of + the living. + </p> + <p> + After that, when they climbed the alleys of the hanging park, resting in + one of the little ruined temples, or watching, through a ripple of + foliage, the remote blue flash of the lake, they did not always talk of + Rendle or of literature. She encouraged Danyers to speak of himself; to + confide his ambitions to her; she asked him the questions which are the + wise woman’s substitute for advice. + </p> + <p> + “You must write,” she said, administering the most exquisite flattery that + human lips could give. + </p> + <p> + Of course he meant to write—why not to do something great in his + turn? His best, at least; with the resolve, at the outset, that his best + should be <i>the</i> best. Nothing less seemed possible with that mandate + in his ears. How she had divined him; lifted and disentangled his groping + ambitions; laid the awakening touch on his spirit with her creative <i>Let + there be light!</i> + </p> + <p> + It was his last day with her, and he was feeling very hopeless and happy. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to write a book about <i>him,”</i> she went on gently. + </p> + <p> + Danyers started; he was beginning to dislike Rendle’s way of walking in + unannounced. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to do it,” she insisted. “A complete interpretation—a + summing-up of his style, his purpose, his theory of life and art. No one + else could do it as well.” + </p> + <p> + He sat looking at her perplexedly. Suddenly—dared he guess? + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t do it without you,” he faltered. + </p> + <p> + “I could help you—I would help you, of course.” + </p> + <p> + They sat silent, both looking at the lake. + </p> + <p> + It was agreed, when they parted, that he should rejoin her six weeks later + in Venice. There they were to talk about the book. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + <i>Lago d’Iseo, August 14th</i>. + </p> + <p> + When I said good-by to you yesterday I promised to come back to Venice in + a week: I was to give you your answer then. I was not honest in saying + that; I didn’t mean to go back to Venice or to see you again. I was + running away from you—and I mean to keep on running! If <i>you</i> + won’t, <i>I</i> must. Somebody must save you from marrying a disappointed + woman of—well, you say years don’t count, and why should they, after + all, since you are not to marry me? + </p> + <p> + That is what I dare not go back to say. <i>You are not to marry me</i>. We + have had our month together in Venice (such a good month, was it not?) and + now you are to go home and write a book—any book but the one we—didn’t + talk of!—and I am to stay here, attitudinizing among my memories + like a sort of female Tithonus. The dreariness of this enforced + immortality! + </p> + <p> + But you shall know the truth. I care for you, or at least for your love, + enough to owe you that. + </p> + <p> + You thought it was because Vincent Rendle had loved me that there was so + little hope for you. I had had what I wanted to the full; wasn’t that what + you said? It is just when a man begins to think he understands a woman + that he may be sure he doesn’t! It is because Vincent Rendle <i>didn’t + love me</i> that there is no hope for you. I never had what I wanted, and + never, never, never will I stoop to wanting anything else. + </p> + <p> + Do you begin to understand? It was all a sham then, you say? No, it was + all real as far as it went. You are young—you haven’t learned, as + you will later, the thousand imperceptible signs by which one gropes one’s + way through the labyrinth of human nature; but didn’t it strike you, + sometimes, that I never told you any foolish little anecdotes about him? + His trick, for instance, of twirling a paper-knife round and round between + his thumb and forefinger while he talked; his mania for saving the backs + of notes; his greediness for wild strawberries, the little pungent Alpine + ones; his childish delight in acrobats and jugglers; his way of always + calling me <i>you—dear you</i>, every letter began—I never + told you a word of all that, did I? Do you suppose I could have helped + telling you, if he had loved me? These little things would have been mine, + then, a part of my life—of our life—they would have slipped + out in spite of me (it’s only your unhappy woman who is always reticent + and dignified). But there never was any “our life;” it was always “our + lives” to the end.... + </p> + <p> + If you knew what a relief it is to tell some one at last, you would bear + with me, you would let me hurt you! I shall never be quite so lonely + again, now that some one knows. + </p> + <p> + Let me begin at the beginning. When I first met Vincent Rendle I was not + twenty-five. That was twenty years ago. From that time until his death, + five years ago, we were fast friends. He gave me fifteen years, perhaps + the best fifteen years, of his life. The world, as you know, thinks that + his greatest poems were written during those years; I am supposed to have + “inspired” them, and in a sense I did. From the first, the intellectual + sympathy between us was almost complete; my mind must have been to him (I + fancy) like some perfectly tuned instrument on which he was never tired of + playing. Some one told me of his once saying of me that I “always + understood;” it is the only praise I ever heard of his giving me. I don’t + even know if he thought me pretty, though I hardly think my appearance + could have been disagreeable to him, for he hated to be with ugly people. + At all events he fell into the way of spending more and more of his time + with me. He liked our house; our ways suited him. He was nervous, + irritable; people bored him and yet he disliked solitude. He took + sanctuary with us. When we travelled he went with us; in the winter he + took rooms near us in Rome. In England or on the continent he was always + with us for a good part of the year. In small ways I was able to help him + in his work; he grew dependent on me. When we were apart he wrote to me + continually—he liked to have me share in all he was doing or + thinking; he was impatient for my criticism of every new book that + interested him; I was a part of his intellectual life. The pity of it was + that I wanted to be something more. I was a young woman and I was in love + with him—not because he was Vincent Rendle, but just because he was + himself! + </p> + <p> + People began to talk, of course—I was Vincent Rendle’s Mrs. Anerton; + when the <i>Sonnets to Silvia</i> appeared, it was whispered that I was + Silvia. Wherever he went, I was invited; people made up to me in the hope + of getting to know him; when I was in London my doorbell never stopped + ringing. Elderly peeresses, aspiring hostesses, love-sick girls and + struggling authors overwhelmed me with their assiduities. I hugged my + success, for I knew what it meant—they thought that Rendle was in + love with me! Do you know, at times, they almost made me think so too? Oh, + there was no phase of folly I didn’t go through. You can’t imagine the + excuses a woman will invent for a man’s not telling her that he loves her—pitiable + arguments that she would see through at a glance if any other woman used + them! But all the while, deep down, I knew he had never cared. I should + have known it if he had made love to me every day of his life. I could + never guess whether he knew what people said about us—he listened so + little to what people said; and cared still less, when he heard. He was + always quite honest and straightforward with me; he treated me as one man + treats another; and yet at times I felt he <i>must</i> see that with me it + was different. If he did see, he made no sign. Perhaps he never noticed—I + am sure he never meant to be cruel. He had never made love to me; it was + no fault of his if I wanted more than he could give me. The <i>Sonnets to + Silvia</i>, you say? But what are they? A cosmic philosophy, not a + love-poem; addressed to Woman, not to a woman! + </p> + <p> + But then, the letters? Ah, the letters! Well, I’ll make a clean breast of + it. You have noticed the breaks in the letters here and there, just as + they seem to be on the point of growing a little—warmer? The + critics, you may remember, praised the editor for his commendable delicacy + and good taste (so rare in these days!) in omitting from the + correspondence all personal allusions, all those <i>détails intimes</i> + which should be kept sacred from the public gaze. They referred, of + course, to the asterisks in the letters to Mrs. A. Those letters I myself + prepared for publication; that is to say, I copied them out for the + editor, and every now and then I put in a line of asterisks to make it + appear that something had been left out. You understand? The asterisks + were a sham—<i>there was nothing to leave out</i>. + </p> + <p> + No one but a woman could understand what I went through during those years—the + moments of revolt, when I felt I must break away from it all, fling the + truth in his face and never see him again; the inevitable reaction, when + not to see him seemed the one unendurable thing, and I trembled lest a + look or word of mine should disturb the poise of our friendship; the silly + days when I hugged the delusion that he <i>must</i> love me, since + everybody thought he did; the long periods of numbness, when I didn’t seem + to care whether he loved me or not. Between these wretched days came + others when our intellectual accord was so perfect that I forgot + everything else in the joy of feeling myself lifted up on the wings of his + thought. Sometimes, then, the heavens seemed to be opened.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + All this time he was so dear a friend! He had the genius of friendship, + and he spent it all on me. Yes, you were right when you said that I have + had more than any other woman. <i>Il faut de l’adresse pour aimer</i>, + Pascal says; and I was so quiet, so cheerful, so frankly affectionate with + him, that in all those years I am almost sure I never bored him. Could I + have hoped as much if he had loved me? + </p> + <p> + You mustn’t think of him, though, as having been tied to my skirts. He + came and went as he pleased, and so did his fancies. There was a girl once + (I am telling you everything), a lovely being who called his poetry “deep” + and gave him <i>Lucile</i> on his birthday. He followed her to Switzerland + one summer, and all the time that he was dangling after her (a little too + conspicuously, I always thought, for a Great Man), he was writing to <i>me</i> + about his theory of vowel-combinations—or was it his experiments in + English hexameter? The letters were dated from the very places where I + knew they went and sat by waterfalls together and he thought out + adjectives for her hair. He talked to me about it quite frankly + afterwards. She was perfectly beautiful and it had been a pure delight to + watch her; but she <i>would</i> talk, and her mind, he said, was “all + elbows.” And yet, the next year, when her marriage was announced, he went + away alone, quite suddenly ... and it was just afterwards that he + published <i>Love’s Viaticum</i>. Men are queer! + </p> + <p> + After my husband died—I am putting things crudely, you see—I + had a return of hope. It was because he loved me, I argued, that he had + never spoken; because he had always hoped some day to make me his wife; + because he wanted to spare me the “reproach.” Rubbish! I knew well enough, + in my heart of hearts, that my one chance lay in the force of habit. He + had grown used to me; he was no longer young; he dreaded new people and + new ways; <i>il avait pris son pli</i>. Would it not be easier to marry + me? + </p> + <p> + I don’t believe he ever thought of it. He wrote me what people call “a + beautiful letter;” he was kind; considerate, decently commiserating; then, + after a few weeks, he slipped into his old way of coming in every + afternoon, and our interminable talks began again just where they had left + off. I heard later that people thought I had shown “such good taste” in + not marrying him. + </p> + <p> + So we jogged on for five years longer. Perhaps they were the best years, + for I had given up hoping. Then he died. + </p> + <p> + After his death—this is curious—there came to me a kind of + mirage of love. All the books and articles written about him, all the + reviews of the “Life,” were full of discreet allusions to Silvia. I became + again the Mrs. Anerton of the glorious days. Sentimental girls and dear + lads like you turned pink when somebody whispered, “that was Silvia you + were talking to.” Idiots begged for my autograph—publishers urged me + to write my reminiscences of him—critics consulted me about the + reading of doubtful lines. And I knew that, to all these people, I was the + woman Vincent Rendle had loved. + </p> + <p> + After a while that fire went out too and I was left alone with my past. + Alone—quite alone; for he had never really been with me. The + intellectual union counted for nothing now. It had been soul to soul, but + never hand in hand, and there were no little things to remember him by. + </p> + <p> + Then there set in a kind of Arctic winter. I crawled into myself as into a + snow-hut. I hated my solitude and yet dreaded any one who disturbed it. + That phase, of course, passed like the others. I took up life again, and + began to read the papers and consider the cut of my gowns. But there was + one question that I could not be rid of, that haunted me night and day. + Why had he never loved me? Why had I been so much to him, and no more? Was + I so ugly, so essentially unlovable, that though a man might cherish me as + his mind’s comrade, he could not care for me as a woman? I can’t tell you + how that question tortured me. It became an obsession. + </p> + <p> + My poor friend, do you begin to see? I had to find out what some other man + thought of me. Don’t be too hard on me! Listen first—consider. When + I first met Vincent Rendle I was a young woman, who had married early and + led the quietest kind of life; I had had no “experiences.” From the hour + of our first meeting to the day of his death I never looked at any other + man, and never noticed whether any other man looked at me. When he died, + five years ago, I knew the extent of my powers no more than a baby. Was it + too late to find out? Should I never know <i>why?</i> + </p> + <p> + Forgive me—forgive me. You are so young; it will be an episode, a + mere “document,” to you so soon! And, besides, it wasn’t as deliberate, as + cold-blooded as these disjointed lines have made it appear. I didn’t plan + it, like a woman in a book. Life is so much more complex than any + rendering of it can be. I liked you from the first—I was drawn to + you (you must have seen that)—I wanted you to like me; it was not a + mere psychological experiment. And yet in a sense it was that, too—I + must be honest. I had to have an answer to that question; it was a ghost + that had to be laid. + </p> + <p> + At first I was afraid—oh, so much afraid—that you cared for me + only because I was Silvia, that you loved me because you thought Rendle + had loved me. I began to think there was no escaping my destiny. + </p> + <p> + How happy I was when I discovered that you were growing jealous of my + past; that you actually hated Rendle! My heart beat like a girl’s when you + told me you meant to follow me to Venice. + </p> + <p> + After our parting at Villa d’Este my old doubts reasserted themselves. + What did I know of your feeling for me, after all? Were you capable of + analyzing it yourself? Was it not likely to be two-thirds vanity and + curiosity, and one-third literary sentimentality? You might easily fancy + that you cared for Mary Anerton when you were really in love with Silvia—the + heart is such a hypocrite! Or you might be more calculating than I had + supposed. Perhaps it was you who had been flattering <i>my</i> vanity in + the hope (the pardonable hope!) of turning me, after a decent interval, + into a pretty little essay with a margin. + </p> + <p> + When you arrived in Venice and we met again—do you remember the + music on the lagoon, that evening, from my balcony?—I was so afraid + you would begin to talk about the book—the book, you remember, was + your ostensible reason for coming. You never spoke of it, and I soon saw + your one fear was <i>I</i> might do so—might remind you of your + object in being with me. Then I knew you cared for me! yes, at that moment + really cared! We never mentioned the book once, did we, during that month + in Venice? + </p> + <p> + I have read my letter over; and now I wish that I had said this to you + instead of writing it. I could have felt my way then, watching your face + and seeing if you understood. But, no, I could not go back to Venice; and + I could not tell you (though I tried) while we were there together. I + couldn’t spoil that month—my one month. It was so good, for once in + my life, to get away from literature.... + </p> + <p> + You will be angry with me at first—but, alas! not for long. What I + have done would have been cruel if I had been a younger woman; as it is, + the experiment will hurt no one but myself. And it will hurt me horribly + (as much as, in your first anger, you may perhaps wish), because it has + shown me, for the first time, all that I have missed.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A JOURNEY + </h2> + <p> + As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of the + wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of + wakeful lucidity. The sleeping-car had sunk into its night-silence. + Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the long + stretches of hurrying blackness. Now and then she turned her head and + looked through the opening in the hangings at her husband’s curtains + across the aisle.... + </p> + <p> + She wondered restlessly if he wanted anything and if she could hear him if + he called. His voice had grown very weak within the last months and it + irritated him when she did not hear. This irritability, this increasing + childish petulance seemed to give expression to their imperceptible + estrangement. Like two faces looking at one another through a sheet of + glass they were close together, almost touching, but they could not hear + or feel each other: the conductivity between them was broken. She, at + least, had this sense of separation, and she fancied sometimes that she + saw it reflected in the look with which he supplemented his failing words. + Doubtless the fault was hers. She was too impenetrably healthy to be + touched by the irrelevancies of disease. Her self-reproachful tenderness + was tinged with the sense of his irrationality: she had a vague feeling + that there was a purpose in his helpless tyrannies. The suddenness of the + change had found her so unprepared. A year ago their pulses had beat to + one robust measure; both had the same prodigal confidence in an + exhaustless future. Now their energies no longer kept step: hers still + bounded ahead of life, preëmpting unclaimed regions of hope and activity, + while his lagged behind, vainly struggling to overtake her. + </p> + <p> + When they married, she had such arrears of living to make up: her days had + been as bare as the whitewashed school-room where she forced innutritious + facts upon reluctant children. His coming had broken in on the slumber of + circumstance, widening the present till it became the encloser of remotest + chances. But imperceptibly the horizon narrowed. Life had a grudge against + her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings. + </p> + <p> + At first the doctors had said that six weeks of mild air would set him + right; but when he came back this assurance was explained as having of + course included a winter in a dry climate. They gave up their pretty + house, storing the wedding presents and new furniture, and went to + Colorado. She had hated it there from the first. Nobody knew her or cared + about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had made, or + to envy her the new dresses and the visiting-cards which were still a + surprise to her. And he kept growing worse. She felt herself beset with + difficulties too evasive to be fought by so direct a temperament. She + still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably ceasing to + be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active, gently + masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through the + material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the protector, + he who must be shielded from importunities and given his drops or his + beef-juice though the skies were falling. The routine of the sick-room + bewildered her; this punctual administering of medicine seemed as idle as + some uncomprehended religious mummery. + </p> + <p> + There were moments, indeed, when warm gushes of pity swept away her + instinctive resentment of his condition, when she still found his old self + in his eyes as they groped for each other through the dense medium of his + weakness. But these moments had grown rare. Sometimes he frightened her: + his sunken expressionless face seemed that of a stranger; his voice was + weak and hoarse; his thin-lipped smile a mere muscular contraction. Her + hand avoided his damp soft skin, which had lost the familiar roughness of + health: she caught herself furtively watching him as she might have + watched a strange animal. It frightened her to feel that this was the man + she loved; there were hours when to tell him what she suffered seemed the + one escape from her fears. But in general she judged herself more + leniently, reflecting that she had perhaps been too long alone with him, + and that she would feel differently when they were at home again, + surrounded by her robust and buoyant family. How she had rejoiced when the + doctors at last gave their consent to his going home! She knew, of course, + what the decision meant; they both knew. It meant that he was to die; but + they dressed the truth in hopeful euphuisms, and at times, in the joy of + preparation, she really forgot the purpose of their journey, and slipped + into an eager allusion to next year’s plans. + </p> + <p> + At last the day of leaving came. She had a dreadful fear that they would + never get away; that somehow at the last moment he would fail her; that + the doctors held one of their accustomed treacheries in reserve; but + nothing happened. They drove to the station, he was installed in a seat + with a rug over his knees and a cushion at his back, and she hung out of + the window waving unregretful farewells to the acquaintances she had + really never liked till then. + </p> + <p> + The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and + it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of the + car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the + dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum. + She had to explain to the child’s mother that her husband was too ill to + be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment visibly + supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car.... + </p> + <p> + That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature frightened + her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed slowly, punctuated + by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired face, she traced in + its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till her own body + vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others observing him too, + and hovered restlessly between him and the line of interrogative eyes. The + freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers of candy and + picture-books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg around the other + and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he passed, lingered with + vague proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers + swelling with the sense that “something ought to be done;” and one nervous + man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his + wife’s health. + </p> + <p> + The hours dragged on in a dreary inoccupation. Towards dusk she sat down + beside him and he laid his hand on hers. The touch startled her. He seemed + to be calling her from far off. She looked at him helplessly and his smile + went through her like a physical pang. + </p> + <p> + “Are you very tired?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, not very.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll be there soon now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very soon.” + </p> + <p> + “This time to-morrow—” + </p> + <p> + He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled + into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in + less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would + all be at the station to meet her—she pictured their round unanxious + faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him + too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no + time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were + making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family + sensibilities. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and + listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His + snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow. She lay + down and tried to sleep... Had she not heard him move? She started up + trembling... The silence frightened her more than any sound. He might not + be able to make her hear—he might be calling her now... What made + her think of such things? It was merely the familiar tendency of an + over-tired mind to fasten itself on the most intolerable chance within the + range of its forebodings.... Putting her head out, she listened; but she + could not distinguish his breathing from that of the other pairs of lungs + about her. She longed to get up and look at him, but she knew the impulse + was a mere vent for her restlessness, and the fear of disturbing him + restrained her.... The regular movement of his curtain reassured her, she + knew not why; she remembered that he had wished her a cheerful good-night; + and the sheer inability to endure her fears a moment longer made her put + them from her with an effort of her whole sound tired body. She turned on + her side and slept. + </p> + <p> + She sat up stiffly, staring out at the dawn. The train was rushing through + a region of bare hillocks huddled against a lifeless sky. It looked like + the first day of creation. The air of the car was close, and she pushed up + her window to let in the keen wind. Then she looked at her watch: it was + seven o’clock, and soon the people about her would be stirring. She + slipped into her clothes, smoothed her dishevelled hair and crept to the + dressing-room. When she had washed her face and adjusted her dress she + felt more hopeful. It was always a struggle for her not to be cheerful in + the morning. Her cheeks burned deliciously under the coarse towel and the + wet hair about her temples broke into strong upward tendrils. Every inch + of her was full of life and elasticity. And in ten hours they would be at + home! + </p> + <p> + She stepped to her husband’s berth: it was time for him to take his early + glass of milk. The window-shade was down, and in the dusk of the curtained + enclosure she could just see that he lay sideways, with his face away from + her. She leaned over him and drew up the shade. As she did so she touched + one of his hands. It felt cold.... + </p> + <p> + She bent closer, laying her hand on his arm and calling him by name. He + did not move. She spoke again more loudly; she grasped his shoulder and + gently shook it. He lay motionless. She caught hold of his hand again: it + slipped from her limply, like a dead thing. A dead thing? ... Her breath + caught. She must see his face. She leaned forward, and hurriedly, + shrinkingly, with a sickening reluctance of the flesh, laid her hands on + his shoulders and turned him over. His head fell back; his face looked + small and smooth; he gazed at her with steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + She remained motionless for a long time, holding him thus; and they looked + at each other. Suddenly she shrank back: the longing to scream, to call + out, to fly from him, had almost overpowered her. But a strong hand + arrested her. Good God! If it were known that he was dead they would be + put off the train at the next station— + </p> + <p> + In a terrifying flash of remembrance there arose before her a scene she + had once witnessed in travelling, when a husband and wife, whose child had + died in the train, had been thrust out at some chance station. She saw + them standing on the platform with the child’s body between them; she had + never forgotten the dazed look with which they followed the receding + train. And this was what would happen to her. Within the next hour she + might find herself on the platform of some strange station, alone with her + husband’s body.... Anything but that! It was too horrible—She + quivered like a creature at bay. + </p> + <p> + As she cowered there, she felt the train moving more slowly. It was coming + then—they were approaching a station! She saw again the husband and + wife standing on the lonely platform; and with a violent gesture she drew + down the shade to hide her husband’s face. + </p> + <p> + Feeling dizzy, she sank down on the edge of the berth, keeping away from + his outstretched body, and pulling the curtains close, so that he and she + were shut into a kind of sepulchral twilight. She tried to think. At all + costs she must conceal the fact that he was dead. But how? Her mind + refused to act: she could not plan, combine. She could think of no way but + to sit there, clutching the curtains, all day long.... + </p> + <p> + She heard the porter making up her bed; people were beginning to move + about the car; the dressing-room door was being opened and shut. She tried + to rouse herself. At length with a supreme effort she rose to her feet, + stepping into the aisle of the car and drawing the curtains tight behind + her. She noticed that they still parted slightly with the motion of the + car, and finding a pin in her dress she fastened them together. Now she + was safe. She looked round and saw the porter. She fancied he was watching + her. + </p> + <p> + “Ain’t he awake yet?” he enquired. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have + it for him by seven.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded silently and crept into her seat. + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other + passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day. + The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows, + glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: “Ain’t he going to get up? + You know we’re ordered to make up the berths as early as we can.” + </p> + <p> + She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not yet,” she stammered. “Not till he’s had his milk. Won’t you get + it, please?” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Soon as we start again.” + </p> + <p> + When the train moved on he reappeared with the milk. She took it from him + and sat vaguely looking at it: her brain moved slowly from one idea to + another, as though they were stepping-stones set far apart across a + whirling flood. At length she became aware that the porter still hovered + expectantly. + </p> + <p> + “Will I give it to him?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” she cried, rising. “He—he’s asleep yet, I think—” + </p> + <p> + She waited till the porter had passed on; then she unpinned the curtains + and slipped behind them. In the semi-obscurity her husband’s face stared + up at her like a marble mask with agate eyes. The eyes were dreadful. She + put out her hand and drew down the lids. Then she remembered the glass of + milk in her other hand: what was she to do with it? She thought of raising + the window and throwing it out; but to do so she would have to lean across + his body and bring her face close to his. She decided to drink the milk. + </p> + <p> + She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter + came back to get it. + </p> + <p> + “When’ll I fold up his bed?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not now—not yet; he’s ill—he’s very ill. Can’t you let + him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible.” + </p> + <p> + He scratched his head. “Well, if he’s <i>really</i> sick—” + </p> + <p> + He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that + the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet. + </p> + <p> + She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an + intimate smile sat down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I’m real sorry to hear your husband’s sick. I’ve had a remarkable amount + of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look + at him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—no, please! He mustn’t be disturbed.” + </p> + <p> + The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s just as you say, of course, but you don’t look to me as if + you’d had much experience in sickness and I’d have been glad to assist + you. What do you generally do when your husband’s taken this way?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I let him sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Too much sleep ain’t any too healthful either. Don’t you give him any + medicine?” + </p> + <p> + “Y—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you wake him to take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “When does he take the next dose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for—two hours—” + </p> + <p> + The lady looked disappointed. “Well, if I was you I’d try giving it + oftener. That’s what I do with my folks.” + </p> + <p> + After that many faces seemed to press upon her. The passengers were on + their way to the dining-car, and she was conscious that as they passed + down the aisle they glanced curiously at the closed curtains. One + lantern-jawed man with prominent eyes stood still and tried to shoot his + projecting glance through the division between the folds. The freckled + child, returning from breakfast, waylaid the passers with a buttery + clutch, saying in a loud whisper, “He’s sick;” and once the conductor came + by, asking for tickets. She shrank into her corner and looked out of the + window at the flying trees and houses, meaningless hieroglyphs of an + endlessly unrolled papyrus. + </p> + <p> + Now and then the train stopped, and the newcomers on entering the car + stared in turn at the closed curtains. More and more people seemed to pass—their + faces began to blend fantastically with the images surging in her + brain.... + </p> + <p> + Later in the day a fat man detached himself from the mist of faces. He had + a creased stomach and soft pale lips. As he pressed himself into the seat + facing her she noticed that he was dressed in black broadcloth, with a + soiled white tie. + </p> + <p> + “Husband’s pretty bad this morning, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, dear! Now that’s terribly distressing, ain’t it?” An apostolic + smile revealed his gold-filled teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you know there’s no sech thing as sickness. Ain’t that a lovely + thought? Death itself is but a deloosion of our grosser senses. On’y lay + yourself open to the influx of the sperrit, submit yourself passively to + the action of the divine force, and disease and dissolution will cease to + exist for you. If you could indooce your husband to read this little + pamphlet—” + </p> + <p> + The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of + hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently + disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or + of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive + system saved time; the other objecting that you couldn’t tell which remedy + had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys + droning through a fog.... The porter came up now and then with questions + that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since + he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly + lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left + the car and others replaced them... + </p> + <p> + Her head was spinning and she tried to steady herself by clutching at her + thoughts as they swept by, but they slipped away from her like bushes on + the side of a sheer precipice down which she seemed to be falling. + Suddenly her mind grew clear again and she found herself vividly picturing + what would happen when the train reached New York. She shuddered as it + occurred to her that he would be quite cold and that some one might + perceive he had been dead since morning. + </p> + <p> + She thought hurriedly:—“If they see I am not surprised they will + suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth + they won’t believe me—no one would believe me! It will be terrible”—and + she kept repeating to herself:—“I must pretend I don’t know. I must + pretend I don’t know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him + quite naturally—and then I must scream.” ... She had an idea that + the scream would be very hard to do. + </p> + <p> + Gradually new thoughts crowded upon her, vivid and urgent: she tried to + separate and restrain them, but they beset her clamorously, like her + school-children at the end of a hot day, when she was too tired to silence + them. Her head grew confused, and she felt a sick fear of forgetting her + part, of betraying herself by some unguarded word or look. + </p> + <p> + “I must pretend I don’t know,” she went on murmuring. The words had lost + their significance, but she repeated them mechanically, as though they had + been a magic formula, until suddenly she heard herself saying: “I can’t + remember, I can’t remember!” + </p> + <p> + Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no + one seemed to notice that she had spoken. + </p> + <p> + As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husband’s + berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through + their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she + gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew + transparent and through it she saw her husband’s face—his dead face. + She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head + seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak + and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, + small and smooth, was her husband’s face. It seemed to be suspended in the + air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. + With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face + away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a + cry and half started from her seat. The woman with the false braids looked + around, and feeling that she must justify her movement in some way she + rose and lifted her travelling-bag from the opposite seat. She unlocked + the bag and looked into it; but the first object her hand met was a small + flask of her husband’s, thrust there at the last moment, in the haste of + departure. She locked the bag and closed her eyes ... his face was there + again, hanging between her eye-balls and lids like a waxen mask against a + red curtain.... + </p> + <p> + She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed + to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were + sitting in the same attitudes as before. + </p> + <p> + A sudden sense of hunger made her aware that she had eaten nothing since + morning. The thought of food filled her with disgust, but she dreaded a + return of faintness, and remembering that she had some biscuits in her bag + she took one out and ate it. The dry crumbs choked her, and she hastily + swallowed a little brandy from her husband’s flask. The burning sensation + in her throat acted as a counter-irritant, momentarily relieving the dull + ache of her nerves. Then she felt a gently-stealing warmth, as though a + soft air fanned her, and the swarming fears relaxed their clutch, receding + through the stillness that enclosed her, a stillness soothing as the + spacious quietude of a summer day. She slept. + </p> + <p> + Through her sleep she felt the impetuous rush of the train. It seemed to + be life itself that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force—sweeping + her into darkness and terror, and the awe of unknown days.—Now all + at once everything was still—not a sound, not a pulsation... She was + dead in her turn, and lay beside him with smooth upstaring face. How quiet + it was!—and yet she heard feet coming, the feet of the men who were + to carry them away... She could feel too—she felt a sudden prolonged + vibration, a series of hard shocks, and then another plunge into darkness: + the darkness of death this time—a black whirlwind on which they were + both spinning like leaves, in wild uncoiling spirals, with millions and + millions of the dead.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + She sprang up in terror. Her sleep must have lasted a long time, for the + winter day had paled and the lights had been lit. The car was in + confusion, and as she regained her self-possession she saw that the + passengers were gathering up their wraps and bags. The woman with the + false braids had brought from the dressing-room a sickly ivy-plant in a + bottle, and the Christian Scientist was reversing his cuffs. The porter + passed down the aisle with his impartial brush. An impersonal figure with + a gold-banded cap asked for her husband’s ticket. A voice shouted + “Baig-gage express!” and she heard the clicking of metal as the passengers + handed over their checks. + </p> + <p> + Presently her window was blocked by an expanse of sooty wall, and the + train passed into the Harlem tunnel. The journey was over; in a few + minutes she would see her family pushing their joyous way through the + throng at the station. Her heart dilated. The worst terror was past.... + </p> + <p> + “We’d better get him up now, hadn’t we?” asked the porter, touching her + arm. + </p> + <p> + He had her husband’s hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it + under his brush. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the hat and tried to speak; but suddenly the car grew dark. + She flung up her arms, struggling to catch at something, and fell face + downward, striking her head against the dead man’s berth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PELICAN + </h2> + <p> + She was very pretty when I first knew her, with the sweet straight nose + and short upper lip of the cameo-brooch divinity, humanized by a dimple + that flowered in her cheek whenever anything was said possessing the + outward attributes of humor without its intrinsic quality. For the dear + lady was providentially deficient in humor: the least hint of the real + thing clouded her lovely eye like the hovering shadow of an algebraic + problem. + </p> + <p> + I don’t think nature had meant her to be “intellectual;” but what can a + poor thing do, whose husband has died of drink when her baby is hardly six + months old, and who finds her coral necklace and her grandfather’s edition + of the British Dramatists inadequate to the demands of the creditors? + </p> + <p> + Her mother, the celebrated Irene Astarte Pratt, had written a poem in + blank verse on “The Fall of Man;” one of her aunts was dean of a girls’ + college; another had translated Euripides—with such a family, the + poor child’s fate was sealed in advance. The only way of paying her + husband’s debts and keeping the baby clothed was to be intellectual; and, + after some hesitation as to the form her mental activity was to take, it + was unanimously decided that she was to give lectures. + </p> + <p> + They began by being drawing-room lectures. The first time I saw her she + was standing by the piano, against a flippant background of Dresden china + and photographs, telling a roomful of women preoccupied with their spring + bonnets all she thought she knew about Greek art. The ladies assembled to + hear her had given me to understand that she was “doing it for the baby,” + and this fact, together with the shortness of her upper lip and the + bewildering co-operation of her dimple, disposed me to listen leniently to + her dissertation. Happily, at that time Greek art was still, if I may use + the phrase, easily handled: it was as simple as walking down a + museum-gallery lined with pleasant familiar Venuses and Apollos. All the + later complications—the archaic and archaistic conundrums; the + influences of Assyria and Asia Minor; the conflicting attributions and the + wrangles of the erudite—still slumbered in the bosom of the future + “scientific critic.” Greek art in those days began with Phidias and ended + with the Apollo Belvedere; and a child could travel from one to the other + without danger of losing his way. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot had two fatal gifts: a capacious but inaccurate memory, and an + extraordinary fluency of speech. There was nothing she did not remember—wrongly; + but her halting facts were swathed in so many layers of rhetoric that + their infirmities were imperceptible to her friendly critics. Besides, she + had been taught Greek by the aunt who had translated Euripides; and the + mere sound of the [Greek: ais] and [Greek: ois] that she now and then not + unskilfully let slip (correcting herself, of course, with a start, and + indulgently mistranslating the phrase), struck awe to the hearts of ladies + whose only “accomplishment” was French—if you didn’t speak too + quickly. + </p> + <p> + I had then but a momentary glimpse of Mrs. Amyot, but a few months later I + came upon her again in the New England university town where the + celebrated Irene Astarte Pratt lived on the summit of a local Parnassus, + with lesser muses and college professors respectfully grouped on the lower + ledges of the sacred declivity. Mrs. Amyot, who, after her husband’s + death, had returned to the maternal roof (even during her father’s + lifetime the roof had been distinctively maternal), Mrs. Amyot, thanks to + her upper lip, her dimple and her Greek, was already esconced in a snug + hollow of the Parnassian slope. + </p> + <p> + After the lecture was over it happened that I walked home with Mrs. Amyot. + From the incensed glances of two or three learned gentlemen who were + hovering on the door-step when we emerged, I inferred that Mrs. Amyot, at + that period, did not often walk home alone; but I doubt whether any of my + discomfited rivals, whatever his claims to favor, was ever treated to so + ravishing a mixture of shyness and self-abandonment, of sham erudition and + real teeth and hair, as it was my privilege to enjoy. Even at the opening + of her public career Mrs. Amyot had a tender eye for strangers, as + possible links with successive centres of culture to which in due course + the torch of Greek art might be handed on. + </p> + <p> + She began by telling me that she had never been so frightened in her life. + She knew, of course, how dreadfully learned I was, and when, just as she + was going to begin, her hostess had whispered to her that I was in the + room, she had felt ready to sink through the floor. Then (with a flying + dimple) she had remembered Emerson’s line—wasn’t it Emerson’s?—that + beauty is its own excuse for <i>seeing</i>, and that had made her feel a + little more confident, since she was sure that no one <i>saw</i> beauty + more vividly than she—as a child she used to sit for hours gazing at + an Etruscan vase on the bookcase in the library, while her sisters played + with their dolls—and if <i>seeing</i> beauty was the only excuse one + needed for talking about it, why, she was sure I would make allowances and + not be <i>too</i> critical and sarcastic, especially if, as she thought + probable, I had heard of her having lost her poor husband, and how she had + to do it for the baby. + </p> + <p> + Being abundantly assured of my sympathy on these points, she went on to + say that she had always wanted so much to consult me about her lectures. + Of course, one subject wasn’t enough (this view of the limitations of + Greek art as a “subject” gave me a startling idea of the rate at which a + successful lecturer might exhaust the universe); she must find others; she + had not ventured on any as yet, but she had thought of Tennyson—didn’t + I <i>love</i> Tennyson? She <i>worshipped</i> him so that she was sure she + could help others to understand him; or what did I think of a “course” on + Raphael or Michelangelo—or on the heroines of Shakespeare? There + were some fine steel-engravings of Raphael’s Madonnas and of the Sistine + ceiling in her mother’s library, and she had seen Miss Cushman in several + Shakespearian <i>rôles</i>, so that on these subjects also she felt + qualified to speak with authority. + </p> + <p> + When we reached her mother’s door she begged me to come in and talk the + matter over; she wanted me to see the baby—she felt as though I + should understand her better if I saw the baby—and the dimple + flashed through a tear. + </p> + <p> + The fear of encountering the author of “The Fall of Man,” combined with + the opportune recollection of a dinner engagement, made me evade this + appeal with the promise of returning on the morrow. On the morrow, I left + too early to redeem my promise; and for several years afterwards I saw no + more of Mrs. Amyot. + </p> + <p> + My calling at that time took me at irregular intervals from one to another + of our larger cities, and as Mrs. Amyot was also peripatetic it was + inevitable that sooner or later we should cross each other’s path. It was + therefore without surprise that, one snowy afternoon in Boston, I learned + from the lady with whom I chanced to be lunching that, as soon as the meal + was over, I was to be taken to hear Mrs. Amyot lecture. + </p> + <p> + “On Greek art?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ve heard her then? No, this is one of the series called ‘Homes + and Haunts of the Poets.’ Last week we had Wordsworth and the Lake Poets, + to-day we are to have Goethe and Weimar. She is a wonderful creature—all + the women of her family are geniuses. You know, of course, that her mother + was Irene Astarte Pratt, who wrote a poem on ‘The Fall of Man’; N.P. + Willis called her the female Milton of America. One of Mrs. Amyot’s aunts + has translated Eurip—” + </p> + <p> + “And is she as pretty as ever?” I irrelevantly interposed. + </p> + <p> + My hostess looked shocked. “She is excessively modest and retiring. She + says it is actual suffering for her to speak in public. You know she only + does it for the baby.” + </p> + <p> + Punctually at the hour appointed, we took our seats in a lecture-hall full + of strenuous females in ulsters. Mrs. Amyot was evidently a favorite with + these austere sisters, for every corner was crowded, and as we entered a + pale usher with an educated mispronunciation was setting forth to several + dejected applicants the impossibility of supplying them with seats. + </p> + <p> + Our own were happily so near the front that when the curtains at the back + of the platform parted, and Mrs. Amyot appeared, I was at once able to + establish a comparison between the lady placidly dimpling to the applause + of her public and the shrinking drawing-room orator of my earlier + recollections. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot was as pretty as ever, and there was the same curious + discrepancy between the freshness of her aspect and the stateness of her + theme, but something was gone of the blushing unsteadiness with which she + had fired her first random shots at Greek art. It was not that the shots + were less uncertain, but that she now had an air of assuming that, for her + purpose, the bull’s-eye was everywhere, so that there was no need to be + flustered in taking aim. This assurance had so facilitated the flow of her + eloquence that she seemed to be performing a trick analogous to that of + the conjuror who pulls hundreds of yards of white paper out of his mouth. + From a large assortment of stock adjectives she chose, with unerring + deftness and rapidity, the one that taste and discrimination would most + surely have rejected, fitting out her subject with a whole wardrobe of + slop-shop epithets irrelevant in cut and size. To the invaluable knack of + not disturbing the association of ideas in her audience, she added the + gift of what may be called a confidential manner—so that her fluent + generalizations about Goethe and his place in literature (the lecture was, + of course, manufactured out of Lewes’s book) had the flavor of personal + experience, of views sympathetically exchanged with her audience on the + best way of knitting children’s socks, or of putting up preserves for the + winter. It was, I am sure, to this personal accent—the moral + equivalent of her dimple—that Mrs. Amyot owed her prodigious, her + irrational success. It was her art of transposing second-hand ideas into + first-hand emotions that so endeared her to her feminine listeners. + </p> + <p> + To any one not in search of “documents” Mrs. Amyot’s success was hardly of + a kind to make her more interesting, and my curiosity flagged with the + growing conviction that the “suffering” entailed on her by public speaking + was at most a retrospective pang. I was sure that she had reached the + point of measuring and enjoying her effects, of deliberately manipulating + her public; and there must indeed have been a certain exhilaration in + attaining results so considerable by means involving so little conscious + effort. Mrs. Amyot’s art was simply an extension of coquetry: she flirted + with her audience. + </p> + <p> + In this mood of enlightened skepticism I responded but languidly to my + hostess’s suggestion that I should go with her that evening to see Mrs. + Amyot. The aunt who had translated Euripides was at home on Saturday + evenings, and one met “thoughtful” people there, my hostess explained: it + was one of the intellectual centres of Boston. My mood remained distinctly + resentful of any connection between Mrs. Amyot and intellectuality, and I + declined to go; but the next day I met Mrs. Amyot in the street. + </p> + <p> + She stopped me reproachfully. She had heard I was in Boston; why had I not + come last night? She had been told that I was at her lecture, and it had + frightened her—yes, really, almost as much as years ago in + Hillbridge. She never <i>could</i> get over that stupid shyness, and the + whole business was as distasteful to her as ever; but what could she do? + There was the baby—he was a big boy now, and boys were <i>so</i> + expensive! But did I really think she had improved the least little bit? + And why wouldn’t I come home with her now, and see the boy, and tell her + frankly what I had thought of the lecture? She had plenty of flattery—people + were <i>so</i> kind, and every one knew that she did it for the baby—but + what she felt the need of was criticism, severe, discriminating criticism + like mine—oh, she knew that I was dreadfully discriminating! + </p> + <p> + I went home with her and saw the boy. In the early heat of her + Tennyson-worship Mrs. Amyot had christened him Lancelot, and he looked it. + Perhaps, however, it was his black velvet dress and the exasperating + length of his yellow curls, together with the fact of his having been + taught to recite Browning to visitors, that raised to fever-heat the + itching of my palms in his Infant-Samuel-like presence. I have since had + reason to think that he would have preferred to be called Billy, and to + hunt cats with the other boys in the block: his curls and his poetry were + simply another outlet for Mrs. Amyot’s irrepressible coquetry. + </p> + <p> + But if Lancelot was not genuine, his mother’s love for him was. It + justified everything—the lectures <i>were</i> for the baby, after + all. I had not been ten minutes in the room before I was pledged to help + Mrs. Amyot carry out her triumphant fraud. If she wanted to lecture on + Plato she should—Plato must take his chance like the rest of us! + There was no use, of course, in being “discriminating.” I preserved + sufficient reason to avoid that pitfall, but I suggested “subjects” and + made lists of books for her with a fatuity that became more obvious as + time attenuated the remembrance of her smile; I even remember thinking + that some men might have cut the knot by marrying her, but I handed over + Plato as a hostage and escaped by the afternoon train. + </p> + <p> + The next time I saw her was in New York, when she had become so + fashionable that it was a part of the whole duty of woman to be seen at + her lectures. The lady who suggested that of course I ought to go and hear + Mrs. Amyot, was not very clear about anything except that she was + perfectly lovely, and had had a horrid husband, and was doing it to + support her boy. The subject of the discourse (I think it was on Ruskin) + was clearly of minor importance, not only to my friend, but to the throng + of well-dressed and absent-minded ladies who rustled in late, dropped + their muffs and pocket-books, and undisguisedly lost themselves in the + study of each other’s apparel. They received Mrs. Amyot with warmth, but + she evidently represented a social obligation like going to church, rather + than any more personal interest; in fact, I suspect that every one of the + ladies would have remained away, had they been sure that none of the + others were coming. + </p> + <p> + Whether Mrs. Amyot was disheartened by the lack of sympathy between + herself and her hearers, or whether the sport of arousing it had become a + task, she certainly imparted her platitudes with less convincing warmth + than of old. Her voice had the same confidential inflections, but it was + like a voice reproduced by a gramophone: the real woman seemed far away. + She had grown stouter without losing her dewy freshness, and her smart + gown might have been taken to show either the potentialities of a settled + income, or a politic concession to the taste of her hearers. As I listened + I reproached myself for ever having suspected her of self-deception in + saying that she took no pleasure in her work. I was sure now that she did + it only for Lancelot, and judging from the size of her audience and the + price of the tickets I concluded that Lancelot must be receiving a liberal + education. + </p> + <p> + I was living in New York that winter, and in the rotation of dinners I + found myself one evening at Mrs. Amyot’s side. The dimple came out at my + greeting as punctually as a cuckoo in a Swiss clock, and I detected the + same automatic quality in the tone in which she made her usual pretty + demand for advice. She was like a musical-box charged with popular airs. + They succeeded one another with breathless rapidity, but there was a + moment after each when the cylinders scraped and whizzed. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot, as I found when I called on her, was living in a sunny flat, + with a sitting-room full of flowers and a tea-table that had the air of + expecting visitors. She owned that she had been ridiculously successful. + It was delightful, of course, on Lancelot’s account. Lancelot had been + sent to the best school in the country, and if things went well and people + didn’t tire of his silly mother he was to go to Harvard afterwards. During + the next two or three years Mrs. Amyot kept her flat in New York, and + radiated art and literature upon the suburbs. I saw her now and then, + always stouter, better dressed, more successful and more automatic: she + had become a lecturing-machine. + </p> + <p> + I went abroad for a year or two and when I came back she had disappeared. + I asked several people about her, but life had closed over her. She had + been last heard of as lecturing—still lecturing—but no one + seemed to know when or where. + </p> + <p> + It was in Boston that I found her at last, forlornly swaying to the + oscillations of an overhead strap in a crowded trolley-car. Her face had + so changed that I lost myself in a startled reckoning of the time that had + elapsed since our parting. She spoke to me shyly, as though aware of my + hurried calculation, and conscious that in five years she ought not to + have altered so much as to upset my notion of time. Then she seemed to set + it down to her dress, for she nervously gathered her cloak over a gown + that asked only to be concealed, and shrank into a seat behind the line of + prehensile bipeds blocking the aisle of the car. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps because she so obviously avoided me that I felt for the + first time that I might be of use to her; and when she left the car I made + no excuse for following her. + </p> + <p> + She said nothing of needing advice and did not ask me to walk home with + her, concealing, as we talked, her transparent preoccupations under the + guise of a sudden interest in all I had been doing since she had last seen + me. Of what concerned her, I learned only that Lancelot was well and that + for the present she was not lecturing—she was tired and her doctor + had ordered her to rest. On the doorstep of a shabby house she paused and + held out her hand. She had been so glad to see me and perhaps if I were in + Boston again—the tired dimple, as it were, bowed me out and closed + the door on the conclusion of the phrase. + </p> + <p> + Two or three weeks later, at my club in New York, I found a letter from + her. In it she owned that she was troubled, that of late she had been + unsuccessful, and that, if I chanced to be coming back to Boston, and + could spare her a little of that invaluable advice which—. A few + days later the advice was at her disposal. She told me frankly what had + happened. Her public had grown tired of her. She had seen it coming on for + some time, and was shrewd enough in detecting the causes. She had more + rivals than formerly—younger women, she admitted, with a smile that + could still afford to be generous—and then her audiences had grown + more critical and consequently more exacting. Lecturing—as she + understood it—used to be simple enough. You chose your topic—Raphael, + Shakespeare, Gothic Architecture, or some such big familiar “subject”—and + read up about it for a week or so at the Athenaeum or the Astor Library, + and then told your audience what you had read. Now, it appeared, that + simple process was no longer adequate. People had tired of familiar + “subjects”; it was the fashion to be interested in things that one hadn’t + always known about—natural selection, animal magnetism, sociology + and comparative folk-lore; while, in literature, the demand had become + equally difficult to meet, since Matthew Arnold had introduced the habit + of studying the “influence” of one author on another. She had tried + lecturing on influences, and had done very well as long as the public was + satisfied with the tracing of such obvious influences as that of Turner on + Ruskin, of Schiller on Goethe, of Shakespeare on English literature; but + such investigations had soon lost all charm for her too-sophisticated + audiences, who now demanded either that the influence or the influenced + should be quite unknown, or that there should be no perceptible connection + between the two. The zest of the performance lay in the measure of + ingenuity with which the lecturer established a relation between two + people who had probably never heard of each other, much less read each + other’s works. A pretty Miss Williams with red hair had, for instance, + been lecturing with great success on the influence of the Rosicrucians + upon the poetry of Keats, while somebody else had given a “course” on the + influence of St. Thomas Aquinas upon Professor Huxley. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot, warmed by my participation in her distress, went on to say + that the growing demand for evolution was what most troubled her. Her + grandfather had been a pillar of the Presbyterian ministry, and the idea + of her lecturing on Darwin or Herbert Spencer was deeply shocking to her + mother and aunts. In one sense the family had staked its literary as well + as its spiritual hopes on the literal inspiration of Genesis: what became + of “The Fall of Man” in the light of modern exegesis? + </p> + <p> + The upshot of it was that she had ceased to lecture because she could no + longer sell tickets enough to pay for the hire of a lecture-hall; and as + for the managers, they wouldn’t look at her. She had tried her luck all + through the Eastern States and as far south as Washington; but it was of + no use, and unless she could get hold of some new subjects—or, + better still, of some new audiences—she must simply go out of the + business. That would mean the failure of all she had worked for, since + Lancelot would have to leave Harvard. She paused, and wept some of the + unbecoming tears that spring from real grief. Lancelot, it appeared, was + to be a genius. He had passed his opening examinations brilliantly; he had + “literary gifts”; he had written beautiful poetry, much of which his + mother had copied out, in reverentially slanting characters, in a + velvet-bound volume which she drew from a locked drawer. + </p> + <p> + Lancelot’s verse struck me as nothing more alarming than growing-pains; + but it was not to learn this that she had summoned me. What she wanted was + to be assured that he was worth working for, an assurance which I managed + to convey by the simple stratagem of remarking that the poems reminded me + of Swinburne—and so they did, as well as of Browning, Tennyson, + Rossetti, and all the other poets who supply young authors with original + inspirations. + </p> + <p> + This point being established, it remained to be decided by what means his + mother was, in the French phrase, to pay herself the luxury of a poet. It + was clear that this indulgence could be bought only with counterfeit coin, + and that the one way of helping Mrs. Amyot was to become a party to the + circulation of such currency. My fetish of intellectual integrity went + down like a ninepin before the appeal of a woman no longer young and + distinctly foolish, but full of those dear contradictions and + irrelevancies that will always make flesh and blood prevail against a + syllogism. When I took leave of Mrs. Amyot I had promised her a dozen + letters to Western universities and had half pledged myself to sketch out + a lecture on the reconciliation of science and religion. + </p> + <p> + In the West she achieved a success which for a year or more embittered my + perusal of the morning papers. The fascination that lures the murderer + back to the scene of his crime drew my eye to every paragraph celebrating + Mrs. Amyot’s last brilliant lecture on the influence of something upon + somebody; and her own letters—she overwhelmed me with them—spared + me no detail of the entertainment given in her honor by the Palimpsest + Club of Omaha or of her reception at the University of Leadville. The + college professors were especially kind: she assured me that she had never + before met with such discriminating sympathy. I winced at the adjective, + which cast a sudden light on the vast machinery of fraud that I had set in + motion. All over my native land, men of hitherto unblemished integrity + were conniving with me in urging their friends to go and hear Mrs. Amyot + lecture on the reconciliation of science and religion! My only hope was + that, somewhere among the number of my accomplices, Mrs. Amyot might find + one who would marry her in the defense of his convictions. + </p> + <p> + None, apparently, resorted to such heroic measures; for about two years + later I was startled by the announcement that Mrs. Amyot was lecturing in + Trenton, New Jersey, on modern theosophy in the light of the Vedas. The + following week she was at Newark, discussing Schopenhauer in the light of + recent psychology. The week after that I was on the deck of an ocean + steamer, reconsidering my share in Mrs. Amyot’s triumphs with the + impartiality with which one views an episode that is being left behind at + the rate of twenty knots an hour. After all, I had been helping a mother + to educate her son. + </p> + <p> + The next ten years of my life were spent in Europe, and when I came home + the recollection of Mrs. Amyot had become as inoffensive as one of those + pathetic ghosts who are said to strive in vain to make themselves visible + to the living. I did not even notice the fact that I no longer heard her + spoken of; she had dropped like a dead leaf from the bough of memory. + </p> + <p> + A year or two after my return I was condemned to one of the worst + punishments a worker can undergo—an enforced holiday. The doctors + who pronounced the inhuman sentence decreed that it should be worked out + in the South, and for a whole winter I carried my cough, my thermometer + and my idleness from one fashionable orange-grove to another. In the vast + and melancholy sea of my disoccupation I clutched like a drowning man at + any human driftwood within reach. I took a critical and depreciatory + interest in the coughs, the thermometers and the idleness of my + fellow-sufferers; but to the healthy, the occupied, the transient I clung + with undiscriminating enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + In no other way can I explain, as I look back on it, the importance I + attached to the leisurely confidences of a new arrival with a brown beard + who, tilted back at my side on a hotel veranda hung with roses, imparted + to me one afternoon the simple annals of his past. There was nothing in + the tale to kindle the most inflammable imagination, and though the man + had a pleasant frank face and a voice differing agreeably from the shrill + inflections of our fellow-lodgers, it is probable that under different + conditions his discursive history of successful business ventures in a + Western city would have affected me somewhat in the manner of a lullaby. + </p> + <p> + Even at the tune I was not sure I liked his agreeable voice: it had a + self-importance out of keeping with the humdrum nature of his story, as + though a breeze engaged in shaking out a table-cloth should have fancied + itself inflating a banner. But this criticism may have been a mere mark of + my own fastidiousness, for the man seemed a simple fellow, satisfied with + his middling fortunes, and already (he was not much past thirty) deep-sunk + in conjugal content. + </p> + <p> + He had just started on an anecdote connected with the cutting of his + eldest boy’s teeth, when a lady I knew, returning from her late drive, + paused before us for a moment in the twilight, with the smile which is the + feminine equivalent of beads to savages. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you take a ticket?” she said sweetly. + </p> + <p> + Of course I would take a ticket—but for what? I ventured to inquire. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s <i>so</i> good of you—for the lecture this evening. You + needn’t go, you know; we’re none of us going; most of us have been through + it already at Aiken and at Saint Augustine and at Palm Beach. I’ve given + away my tickets to some new people who’ve just come from the North, and + some of us are going to send our maids, just to fill up the room.” + </p> + <p> + “And may I ask to whom you are going to pay this delicate attention?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I thought you knew—to poor Mrs. Amyot. She’s been lecturing all + over the South this winter; she’s simply <i>haunted</i> me ever since I + left New York—and we had six weeks of her at Bar Harbor last summer! + One has to take tickets, you know, because she’s a widow and does it for + her son—to pay for his education. She’s so plucky and nice about it, + and talks about him in such a touching unaffected way, that everybody is + sorry for her, and we all simply ruin ourselves in tickets. I do hope that + boy’s nearly educated!” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Amyot? Mrs. Amyot?” I repeated. “Is she <i>still</i> educating her + son?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do you know about her? Has she been at it long? There’s some comfort + in that, for I suppose when the boy’s provided for the poor thing will be + able to take a rest—and give us one!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed and held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s your ticket. Did you say <i>tickets</i>—two? Oh, thanks. Of + course you needn’t go.” + </p> + <p> + “But I mean to go. Mrs. Amyot is an old friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really? That’s awfully good of you. Perhaps I’ll go too if I can + persuade Charlie and the others to come. And I wonder”—in a + well-directed aside—“if your friend—?” + </p> + <p> + I telegraphed her under cover of the dusk that my friend was of too recent + standing to be drawn into her charitable toils, and she masked her mistake + under a rattle of friendly adjurations not to be late, and to be sure to + keep a seat for her, as she had quite made up her mind to go even if + Charlie and the others wouldn’t. + </p> + <p> + The flutter of her skirts subsided in the distance, and my neighbor, who + had half turned away to light a cigar, made no effort to reopen the + conversation. At length, fearing he might have overheard the allusion to + himself, I ventured to ask if he were going to the lecture that evening. + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged—I have a ticket,” he said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + This struck me as in such bad taste that I made no answer; and it was he + who spoke next. + </p> + <p> + “Did I understand you to say that you were an old friend of Mrs. Amyot’s?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I may claim to be, if it is the same Mrs. Amyot I had the + pleasure of knowing many years ago. My Mrs. Amyot used to lecture too—” + </p> + <p> + “To pay for her son’s education?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—see you later.” + </p> + <p> + He got up and walked into the house. + </p> + <p> + In the hotel drawing-room that evening there was but a meagre sprinkling + of guests, among whom I saw my brown-bearded friend sitting alone on a + sofa, with his head against the wall. It could not have been curiosity to + see Mrs. Amyot that had impelled him to attend the performance, for it + would have been impossible for him, without changing his place, to command + the improvised platform at the end of the room. When I looked at him he + seemed lost in contemplation of the chandelier. + </p> + <p> + The lady from whom I had bought my tickets fluttered in late, unattended + by Charlie and the others, and assuring me that she would <i>scream</i> if + we had the lecture on Ibsen—she had heard it three times already + that winter. A glance at the programme reassured her: it informed us (in + the lecturer’s own slanting hand) that Mrs. Amyot was to lecture on the + Cosmogony. + </p> + <p> + After a long pause, during which the small audience coughed and moved its + chairs and showed signs of regretting that it had come, the door opened, + and Mrs. Amyot stepped upon the platform. Ah, poor lady! + </p> + <p> + Some one said “Hush!”, the coughing and chair-shifting subsided, and she + began. + </p> + <p> + It was like looking at one’s self early in the morning in a cracked + mirror. I had no idea I had grown so old. As for Lancelot, he must have a + beard. A beard? The word struck me, and without knowing why I glanced + across the room at my bearded friend on the sofa. Oddly enough he was + looking at me, with a half-defiant, half-sullen expression; and as our + glances crossed, and his fell, the conviction came to me that <i>he was + Lancelot</i>. + </p> + <p> + I don’t remember a word of the lecture; and yet there were enough of them + to have filled a good-sized dictionary. The stream of Mrs. Amyot’s + eloquence had become a flood: one had the despairing sense that she had + sprung a leak, and that until the plumber came there was nothing to be + done about it. + </p> + <p> + The plumber came at length, in the shape of a clock striking ten; my + companion, with a sigh of relief, drifted away in search of Charlie and + the others; the audience scattered with the precipitation of people who + had discharged a duty; and, without surprise, I found the brown-bearded + stranger at my elbow. + </p> + <p> + We stood alone in the bare-floored room, under the flaring chandelier. + </p> + <p> + “I think you told me this afternoon that you were an old friend of Mrs. + Amyot’s?” he began awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + I assented. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come in and see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Now? I shall be very glad to, if—” + </p> + <p> + “She’s ready; she’s expecting you,” he interposed. + </p> + <p> + He offered no further explanation, and I followed him in silence. He led + me down the long corridor, and pushed open the door of a sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” he said, closing the door after we had entered, “here’s the + gentleman who says he used to know you.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot, who sat in an easy-chair stirring a cup of bouillon, looked up + with a start. She had evidently not seen me in the audience, and her son’s + description had failed to convey my identity. I saw a frightened look in + her eyes; then, like a frost flower on a window-pane, the dimple expanded + on her wrinkled cheek, and she held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so glad,” she said, “so glad!” + </p> + <p> + She turned to her son, who stood watching us. “You must have told Lancelot + all about me—you’ve known me so long!” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t had time to talk to your son—since I knew he was your + son,” I explained. + </p> + <p> + Her brow cleared. “Then you haven’t had time to say anything very + dreadful?” she said with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “It is he who has been saying dreadful things,” I returned, trying to fall + in with her tone. + </p> + <p> + I saw my mistake. “What things?” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Making me feel how old I am by telling me about his children.” + </p> + <p> + “My grandchildren!” she exclaimed with a blush. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you choose to put it so.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed again, vaguely, and was silent. I hesitated a moment and then + put out my hand. + </p> + <p> + “I see you are tired. I shouldn’t have ventured to come in at this hour if + your son—” + </p> + <p> + The son stepped between us. “Yes, I asked him to come,” he said to his + mother, in his clear self-assertive voice. “<i>I</i> haven’t told him + anything yet; but you’ve got to—now. That’s what I brought him for.” + </p> + <p> + His mother straightened herself, but I saw her eye waver. + </p> + <p> + “Lancelot—” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Amyot,” I said, turning to the young man, “if your mother will let me + come back to-morrow, I shall be very glad—” + </p> + <p> + He struck his hand hard against the table on which he was leaning. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir! It won’t take long, but it’s got to be said now.” + </p> + <p> + He moved nearer to his mother, and I saw his lip twitch under his beard. + After all, he was younger and less sure of himself than I had fancied. + </p> + <p> + “See here, mother,” he went on, “there’s something here that’s got to be + cleared up, and as you say this gentleman is an old friend of yours it had + better be cleared up in his presence. Maybe he can help explain it—and + if he can’t, it’s got to be explained to <i>him.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Amyot’s lips moved, but she made no sound. She glanced at me + helplessly and sat down. My early inclination to thrash Lancelot was + beginning to reassert itself. I took up my hat and moved toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Amyot is under no obligation to explain anything whatever to me,” I + said curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Well! She’s under an obligation to me, then—to explain something in + your presence.” He turned to her again. “Do you know what the people in + this hotel are saying? Do you know what he thinks—what they all + think? That you’re doing this lecturing to support me—to pay for my + education! They say you go round telling them so. That’s what they buy the + tickets for—they do it out of charity. Ask him if it isn’t what they + say—ask him if they weren’t joking about it on the piazza before + dinner. The others think I’m a little boy, but he’s known you for years, + and he must have known how old I was. <i>He</i> must have known it wasn’t + to pay for my education!” + </p> + <p> + He stood before her with his hands clenched, the veins beating in his + temples. She had grown very pale, and her cheeks looked hollow. When she + spoke her voice had an odd click in it. + </p> + <p> + “If—if these ladies and gentlemen have been coming to my lectures + out of charity, I see nothing to be ashamed of in that—” she + faltered. + </p> + <p> + “If they’ve been coming out of charity to <i>me</i>,” he retorted, “don’t + you see you’ve been making me a party to a fraud? Isn’t there any shame in + that?” His forehead reddened. “Mother! Can’t you see the shame of letting + people think I was a d—beat, who sponged on you for my keep? Let + alone making us both the laughing-stock of every place you go to!” + </p> + <p> + “I never did that, Lancelot!” + </p> + <p> + “Did what?” + </p> + <p> + “Made you a laughing-stock—” + </p> + <p> + He stepped close to her and caught her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Will you look me in the face and swear you never told people you were + doing this lecturing business to support me?” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. He dropped her wrist and she lifted a limp + handkerchief to her frightened eyes. “I did do it—to support you—to + educate you”—she sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “We’re not talking about what you did when I was a boy. Everybody who + knows me knows I’ve been a grateful son. Have I ever taken a penny from + you since I left college ten years ago?” + </p> + <p> + “I never said you had! How can you accuse your mother of such wickedness, + Lancelot?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you never told anybody in this hotel—or anywhere else in the + last ten years—that you were lecturing to support me? Answer me + that!” + </p> + <p> + “How can you,” she wept, “before a stranger?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you said such things about <i>me</i> to strangers?” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “Lancelot!” + </p> + <p> + “Well—answer me, then. Say you haven’t, mother!” His voice broke + unexpectedly and he took her hand with a gentler touch. “I’ll believe + anything you tell me,” he said almost humbly. + </p> + <p> + She mistook his tone and raised her head with a rash clutch at dignity. + </p> + <p> + “I think you’d better ask this gentleman to excuse you first.” + </p> + <p> + “No, by God, I won’t!” he cried. “This gentleman says he knows all about + you and I mean him to know all about me too. I don’t mean that he or + anybody else under this roof shall go on thinking for another twenty-four + hours that a cent of their money has ever gone into my pockets since I was + old enough to shift for myself. And he sha’n’t leave this room till you’ve + made that clear to him.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped back as he spoke and put his shoulders against the door. + </p> + <p> + “My dear young gentleman,” I said politely, “I shall leave this room + exactly when I see fit to do so—and that is now. I have already told + you that Mrs. Amyot owes me no explanation of her conduct.” + </p> + <p> + “But I owe you an explanation of mine—you and every one who has + bought a single one of her lecture tickets. Do you suppose a man who’s + been through what I went through while that woman was talking to you in + the porch before dinner is going to hold his tongue, and not attempt to + justify himself? No decent man is going to sit down under that sort of + thing. It’s enough to ruin his character. If you’re my mother’s friend, + you owe it to me to hear what I’ve got to say.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Good God, mother!” he burst out suddenly, “what did you do it for? + Haven’t you had everything you wanted ever since I was able to pay for it? + Haven’t I paid you back every cent you spent on me when I was in college? + Have I ever gone back on you since I was big enough to work?” He turned to + me with a laugh. “I thought she did it to amuse herself—and because + there was such a demand for her lectures. <i>Such a demand!</i> That’s + what she always told me. When we asked her to come out and spend this + winter with us in Minneapolis, she wrote back that she couldn’t because + she had engagements all through the south, and her manager wouldn’t let + her off. That’s the reason why I came all the way on here to see her. We + thought she was the most popular lecturer in the United States, my wife + and I did! We were awfully proud of it too, I can tell you.” He dropped + into a chair, still laughing. + </p> + <p> + “How can you, Lancelot, how can you!” His mother, forgetful of my + presence, was clinging to him with tentative caresses. “When you didn’t + need the money any longer I spent it all on the children—you know I + did.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, on lace christening dresses and life-size rocking-horses with real + manes! The kind of thing children can’t do without.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lancelot, Lancelot—I loved them so! How can you believe such + falsehoods about me?” + </p> + <p> + “What falsehoods about you?” + </p> + <p> + “That I ever told anybody such dreadful things?” + </p> + <p> + He put her back gently, keeping his eyes on hers. “Did you never tell + anybody in this house that you were lecturing to support your son?” + </p> + <p> + Her hands dropped from his shoulders and she flashed round on me in sudden + anger. + </p> + <p> + “I know what I think of people who call themselves friends and who come + between a mother and her son!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, mother!” he groaned. + </p> + <p> + I went up to him and laid my hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “My dear man,” I said, “don’t you see the uselessness of prolonging this?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do,” he answered abruptly; and before I could forestall his + movement he rose and walked out of the room. + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, measured by the lessening reverberations of his + footsteps down the wooden floor of the corridor. + </p> + <p> + When they ceased I approached Mrs. Amyot, who had sunk into her chair. I + held out my hand and she took it without a trace of resentment on her + ravaged face. + </p> + <p> + “I sent his wife a seal-skin jacket at Christmas!” she said, with the + tears running down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOULS BELATED + </h2> + <p> + Their railway-carriage had been full when the train left Bologna; but at + the first station beyond Milan their only remaining companion—a + courtly person who ate garlic out of a carpet-bag—had left his + crumb-strewn seat with a bow. + </p> + <p> + Lydia’s eye regretfully followed the shiny broadcloth of his retreating + back till it lost itself in the cloud of touts and cab-drivers hanging + about the station; then she glanced across at Gannett and caught the same + regret in his look. They were both sorry to be alone. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Par-ten-za!</i>” shouted the guard. The train vibrated to a sudden + slamming of doors; a waiter ran along the platform with a tray of + fossilized sandwiches; a belated porter flung a bundle of shawls and + band-boxes into a third-class carriage; the guard snapped out a brief <i>Partensa!</i> + which indicated the purely ornamental nature of his first shout; and the + train swung out of the station. + </p> + <p> + The direction of the road had changed, and a shaft of sunlight struck + across the dusty red velvet seats into Lydia’s corner. Gannett did not + notice it. He had returned to his <i>Revue de Paris,</i> and she had to + rise and lower the shade of the farther window. Against the vast horizon + of their leisure such incidents stood out sharply. + </p> + <p> + Having lowered the shade, Lydia sat down, leaving the length of the + carriage between herself and Gannett. At length he missed her and looked + up. + </p> + <p> + “I moved out of the sun,” she hastily explained. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her curiously: the sun was beating on her through the shade. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said pleasantly; adding, “You don’t mind?” as he drew a + cigarette-case from his pocket. + </p> + <p> + It was a refreshing touch, relieving the tension of her spirit with the + suggestion that, after all, if he could <i>smoke</i>—! The relief + was only momentary. Her experience of smokers was limited (her husband had + disapproved of the use of tobacco) but she knew from hearsay that men + sometimes smoked to get away from things; that a cigar might be the + masculine equivalent of darkened windows and a headache. Gannett, after a + puff or two, returned to his review. + </p> + <p> + It was just as she had foreseen; he feared to speak as much as she did. It + was one of the misfortunes of their situation that they were never busy + enough to necessitate, or even to justify, the postponement of unpleasant + discussions. If they avoided a question it was obviously, unconcealably + because the question was disagreeable. They had unlimited leisure and an + accumulation of mental energy to devote to any subject that presented + itself; new topics were in fact at a premium. Lydia sometimes had + premonitions of a famine-stricken period when there would be nothing left + to talk about, and she had already caught herself doling out piecemeal + what, in the first prodigality of their confidences, she would have flung + to him in a breath. Their silence therefore might simply mean that they + had nothing to say; but it was another disadvantage of their position that + it allowed infinite opportunity for the classification of minute + differences. Lydia had learned to distinguish between real and factitious + silences; and under Gannett’s she now detected a hum of speech to which + her own thoughts made breathless answer. + </p> + <p> + How could it be otherwise, with that thing between them? She glanced up at + the rack overhead. The <i>thing</i> was there, in her dressing-bag, + symbolically suspended over her head and his. He was thinking of it now, + just as she was; they had been thinking of it in unison ever since they + had entered the train. While the carriage had held other travellers they + had screened her from his thoughts; but now that he and she were alone she + knew exactly what was passing through his mind; she could almost hear him + asking himself what he should say to her.... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The thing had come that morning, brought up to her in an innocent-looking + envelope with the rest of their letters, as they were leaving the hotel at + Bologna. As she tore it open, she and Gannett were laughing over some + ineptitude of the local guide-book—they had been driven, of late, to + make the most of such incidental humors of travel. Even when she had + unfolded the document she took it for some unimportant business paper sent + abroad for her signature, and her eye travelled inattentively over the + curly <i>Whereases</i> of the preamble until a word arrested her:—Divorce. + There it stood, an impassable barrier, between her husband’s name and + hers. + </p> + <p> + She had been prepared for it, of course, as healthy people are said to be + prepared for death, in the sense of knowing it must come without in the + least expecting that it will. She had known from the first that Tillotson + meant to divorce her—but what did it matter? Nothing mattered, in + those first days of supreme deliverance, but the fact that she was free; + and not so much (she had begun to be aware) that freedom had released her + from Tillotson as that it had given her to Gannett. This discovery had not + been agreeable to her self-esteem. She had preferred to think that + Tillotson had himself embodied all her reasons for leaving him; and those + he represented had seemed cogent enough to stand in no need of + reinforcement. Yet she had not left him till she met Gannett. It was her + love for Gannett that had made life with Tillotson so poor and incomplete + a business. If she had never, from the first, regarded her marriage as a + full cancelling of her claims upon life, she had at least, for a number of + years, accepted it as a provisional compensation,—she had made it + “do.” Existence in the commodious Tillotson mansion in Fifth Avenue—with + Mrs. Tillotson senior commanding the approaches from the second-story + front windows—had been reduced to a series of purely automatic acts. + The moral atmosphere of the Tillotson interior was as carefully screened + and curtained as the house itself: Mrs. Tillotson senior dreaded ideas as + much as a draught in her back. Prudent people liked an even temperature; + and to do anything unexpected was as foolish as going out in the rain. One + of the chief advantages of being rich was that one need not be exposed to + unforeseen contingencies: by the use of ordinary firmness and common sense + one could make sure of doing exactly the same thing every day at the same + hour. These doctrines, reverentially imbibed with his mother’s milk, + Tillotson (a model son who had never given his parents an hour’s anxiety) + complacently expounded to his wife, testifying to his sense of their + importance by the regularity with which he wore goloshes on damp days, his + punctuality at meals, and his elaborate precautions against burglars and + contagious diseases. Lydia, coming from a smaller town, and entering New + York life through the portals of the Tillotson mansion, had mechanically + accepted this point of view as inseparable from having a front pew in + church and a parterre box at the opera. All the people who came to the + house revolved in the same small circle of prejudices. It was the kind of + society in which, after dinner, the ladies compared the exorbitant charges + of their children’s teachers, and agreed that, even with the new duties on + French clothes, it was cheaper in the end to get everything from Worth; + while the husbands, over their cigars, lamented municipal corruption, and + decided that the men to start a reform were those who had no private + interests at stake. + </p> + <p> + To Lydia this view of life had become a matter of course, just as + lumbering about in her mother-in-law’s landau had come to seem the only + possible means of locomotion, and listening every Sunday to a fashionable + Presbyterian divine the inevitable atonement for having thought oneself + bored on the other six days of the week. Before she met Gannett her life + had seemed merely dull: his coming made it appear like one of those dismal + Cruikshank prints in which the people are all ugly and all engaged in + occupations that are either vulgar or stupid. + </p> + <p> + It was natural that Tillotson should be the chief sufferer from this + readjustment of focus. Gannett’s nearness had made her husband ridiculous, + and a part of the ridicule had been reflected on herself. Her tolerance + laid her open to a suspicion of obtuseness from which she must, at all + costs, clear herself in Gannett’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + She did not understand this until afterwards. At the time she fancied that + she had merely reached the limits of endurance. In so large a charter of + liberties as the mere act of leaving Tillotson seemed to confer, the small + question of divorce or no divorce did not count. It was when she saw that + she had left her husband only to be with Gannett that she perceived the + significance of anything affecting their relations. Her husband, in + casting her off, had virtually flung her at Gannett: it was thus that the + world viewed it. The measure of alacrity with which Gannett would receive + her would be the subject of curious speculation over afternoon-tea tables + and in club corners. She knew what would be said—she had heard it so + often of others! The recollection bathed her in misery. The men would + probably back Gannett to “do the decent thing”; but the ladies’ eye-brows + would emphasize the worthlessness of such enforced fidelity; and after + all, they would be right. She had put herself in a position where Gannett + “owed” her something; where, as a gentleman, he was bound to “stand the + damage.” The idea of accepting such compensation had never crossed her + mind; the so-called rehabilitation of such a marriage had always seemed to + her the only real disgrace. What she dreaded was the necessity of having + to explain herself; of having to combat his arguments; of calculating, in + spite of herself, the exact measure of insistence with which he pressed + them. She knew not whether she most shrank from his insisting too much or + too little. In such a case the nicest sense of proportion might be at + fault; and how easy to fall into the error of taking her resistance for a + test of his sincerity! Whichever way she turned, an ironical implication + confronted her: she had the exasperated sense of having walked into the + trap of some stupid practical joke. + </p> + <p> + Beneath all these preoccupations lurked the dread of what he was thinking. + Sooner or later, of course, he would have to speak; but that, in the + meantime, he should think, even for a moment, that there was any use in + speaking, seemed to her simply unendurable. Her sensitiveness on this + point was aggravated by another fear, as yet barely on the level of + consciousness; the fear of unwillingly involving Gannett in the trammels + of her dependence. To look upon him as the instrument of her liberation; + to resist in herself the least tendency to a wifely taking possession of + his future; had seemed to Lydia the one way of maintaining the dignity of + their relation. Her view had not changed, but she was aware of a growing + inability to keep her thoughts fixed on the essential point—the + point of parting with Gannett. It was easy to face as long as she kept it + sufficiently far off: but what was this act of mental postponement but a + gradual encroachment on his future? What was needful was the courage to + recognize the moment when, by some word or look, their voluntary + fellowship should be transformed into a bondage the more wearing that it + was based on none of those common obligations which make the most + imperfect marriage in some sort a centre of gravity. + </p> + <p> + When the porter, at the next station, threw the door open, Lydia drew + back, making way for the hoped-for intruder; but none came, and the train + took up its leisurely progress through the spring wheat-fields and budding + copses. She now began to hope that Gannett would speak before the next + station. She watched him furtively, half-disposed to return to the seat + opposite his, but there was an artificiality about his absorption that + restrained her. She had never before seen him read with so conspicuous an + air of warding off interruption. What could he be thinking of? Why should + he be afraid to speak? Or was it her answer that he dreaded? + </p> + <p> + The train paused for the passing of an express, and he put down his book + and leaned out of the window. Presently he turned to her with a smile. + “There’s a jolly old villa out here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His easy tone relieved her, and she smiled back at him as she crossed over + to his corner. + </p> + <p> + Beyond the embankment, through the opening in a mossy wall, she caught + sight of the villa, with its broken balustrades, its stagnant fountains, + and the stone satyr closing the perspective of a dusky grass-walk. + </p> + <p> + “How should you like to live there?” he asked as the train moved on. + </p> + <p> + “There?” + </p> + <p> + “In some such place, I mean. One might do worse, don’t you think so? There + must be at least two centuries of solitude under those yew-trees. + Shouldn’t you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don’t know,” she faltered. She knew now that he meant to speak. + </p> + <p> + He lit another cigarette. “We shall have to live somewhere, you know,” he + said as he bent above the match. + </p> + <p> + Lydia tried to speak carelessly. “<i>Je n’en vois pas la nécessité!</i> + Why not live everywhere, as we have been doing?” + </p> + <p> + “But we can’t travel forever, can we?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, forever’s a long word,” she objected, picking up the review he had + thrown aside. + </p> + <p> + “For the rest of our lives then,” he said, moving nearer. + </p> + <p> + She made a slight gesture which caused his hand to slip from hers. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we make plans? I thought you agreed with me that it’s + pleasanter to drift.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her hesitatingly. “It’s been pleasant, certainly; but I + suppose I shall have to get at my work again some day. You know I haven’t + written a line since—all this time,” he hastily emended. + </p> + <p> + She flamed with sympathy and self-reproach. “Oh, if you mean <i>that</i>—if + you want to write—of course we must settle down. How stupid of me + not to have thought of it sooner! Where shall we go? Where do you think + you could work best? We oughtn’t to lose any more time.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated again. “I had thought of a villa in these parts. It’s quiet; + we shouldn’t be bothered. Should you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I should like it.” She paused and looked away. “But I thought—I + remember your telling me once that your best work had been done in a crowd—in + big cities. Why should you shut yourself up in a desert?” + </p> + <p> + Gannett, for a moment, made no reply. At length he said, avoiding her eye + as carefully as she avoided his: “It might be different now; I can’t tell, + of course, till I try. A writer ought not to be dependent on his <i>milieu</i>; + it’s a mistake to humor oneself in that way; and I thought that just at + first you might prefer to be—” + </p> + <p> + She faced him. “To be what?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—quiet. I mean—” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘at first’?” she interrupted. + </p> + <p> + He paused again. “I mean after we are married.” + </p> + <p> + She thrust up her chin and turned toward the window. “Thank you!” she + tossed back at him. + </p> + <p> + “Lydia!” he exclaimed blankly; and she felt in every fibre of her averted + person that he had made the inconceivable, the unpardonable mistake of + anticipating her acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + The train rattled on and he groped for a third cigarette. Lydia remained + silent. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t offended you?” he ventured at length, in the tone of a man who + feels his way. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head with a sigh. “I thought you understood,” she moaned. + Their eyes met and she moved back to his side. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to know how not to offend me? By taking it for granted, once + for all, that you’ve said your say on this odious question and that I’ve + said mine, and that we stand just where we did this morning before that—that + hateful paper came to spoil everything between us!” + </p> + <p> + “To spoil everything between us? What on earth do you mean? Aren’t you + glad to be free?” + </p> + <p> + “I was free before.” + </p> + <p> + “Not to marry me,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t <i>want</i> to marry you!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + She saw that he turned pale. “I’m obtuse, I suppose,” he said slowly. “I + confess I don’t see what you’re driving at. Are you tired of the whole + business? Or was <i>I</i> simply a—an excuse for getting away? + Perhaps you didn’t care to travel alone? Was that it? And now you want to + chuck me?” His voice had grown harsh. “You owe me a straight answer, you + know; don’t be tender-hearted!” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes swam as she leaned to him. “Don’t you see it’s because I care—because + I care so much? Oh, Ralph! Can’t you see how it would humiliate me? Try to + feel it as a woman would! Don’t you see the misery of being made your wife + in this way? If I’d known you as a girl—that would have been a real + marriage! But now—this vulgar fraud upon society—and upon a + society we despised and laughed at—this sneaking back into a + position that we’ve voluntarily forfeited: don’t you see what a cheap + compromise it is? We neither of us believe in the abstract ‘sacredness’ of + marriage; we both know that no ceremony is needed to consecrate our love + for each other; what object can we have in marrying, except the secret + fear of each that the other may escape, or the secret longing to work our + way back gradually—oh, very gradually—into the esteem of the + people whose conventional morality we have always ridiculed and hated? And + the very fact that, after a decent interval, these same people would come + and dine with us—the women who talk about the indissolubility of + marriage, and who would let me die in a gutter to-day because I am + ‘leading a life of sin’—doesn’t that disgust you more than their + turning their backs on us now? I can stand being cut by them, but I + couldn’t stand their coming to call and asking what I meant to do about + visiting that unfortunate Mrs. So-and-so!” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and Gannett maintained a perplexed silence. + </p> + <p> + “You judge things too theoretically,” he said at length, slowly. “Life is + made up of compromises.” + </p> + <p> + “The life we ran away from—yes! If we had been willing to accept + them”—she flushed—“we might have gone on meeting each other at + Mrs. Tillotson’s dinners.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled slightly. “I didn’t know that we ran away to found a new system + of ethics. I supposed it was because we loved each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Life is complex, of course; isn’t it the very recognition of that fact + that separates us from the people who see it <i>tout d’une pièce?</i> If + <i>they</i> are right—if marriage is sacred in itself and the + individual must always be sacrificed to the family—then there can be + no real marriage between us, since our—our being together is a + protest against the sacrifice of the individual to the family.” She + interrupted herself with a laugh. “You’ll say now that I’m giving you a + lecture on sociology! Of course one acts as one can—as one must, + perhaps—pulled by all sorts of invisible threads; but at least one + needn’t pretend, for social advantages, to subscribe to a creed that + ignores the complexity of human motives—that classifies people by + arbitrary signs, and puts it in everybody’s reach to be on Mrs. + Tillotson’s visiting-list. It may be necessary that the world should be + ruled by conventions—but if we believed in them, why did we break + through them? And if we don’t believe in them, is it honest to take + advantage of the protection they afford?” + </p> + <p> + Gannett hesitated. “One may believe in them or not; but as long as they do + rule the world it is only by taking advantage of their protection that one + can find a <i>modus vivendi.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Do outlaws need a <i>modus vivendi?”</i> + </p> + <p> + He looked at her hopelessly. Nothing is more perplexing to man than the + mental process of a woman who reasons her emotions. + </p> + <p> + She thought she had scored a point and followed it up passionately. “You + do understand, don’t you? You see how the very thought of the thing + humiliates me! We are together to-day because we choose to be—don’t + let us look any farther than that!” She caught his hands. “<i>Promise</i> + me you’ll never speak of it again; promise me you’ll never <i>think</i> of + it even,” she implored, with a tearful prodigality of italics. + </p> + <p> + Through what followed—his protests, his arguments, his final + unconvinced submission to her wishes—she had a sense of his but + half-discerning all that, for her, had made the moment so tumultuous. They + had reached that memorable point in every heart-history when, for the + first time, the man seems obtuse and the woman irrational. It was the + abundance of his intentions that consoled her, on reflection, for what + they lacked in quality. After all, it would have been worse, incalculably + worse, to have detected any over-readiness to understand her. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + When the train at night-fall brought them to their journey’s end at the + edge of one of the lakes, Lydia was glad that they were not, as usual, to + pass from one solitude to another. Their wanderings during the year had + indeed been like the flight of outlaws: through Sicily, Dalmatia, + Transylvania and Southern Italy they had persisted in their tacit + avoidance of their kind. Isolation, at first, had deepened the flavor of + their happiness, as night intensifies the scent of certain flowers; but in + the new phase on which they were entering, Lydia’s chief wish was that + they should be less abnormally exposed to the action of each other’s + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + She shrank, nevertheless, as the brightly-looming bulk of the fashionable + Anglo-American hotel on the water’s brink began to radiate toward their + advancing boat its vivid suggestion of social order, visitors’ lists, + Church services, and the bland inquisition of the <i>table-d’hôte</i>. The + mere fact that in a moment or two she must take her place on the hotel + register as Mrs. Gannett seemed to weaken the springs of her resistance. + </p> + <p> + They had meant to stay for a night only, on their way to a lofty village + among the glaciers of Monte Rosa; but after the first plunge into + publicity, when they entered the dining-room, Lydia felt the relief of + being lost in a crowd, of ceasing for a moment to be the centre of + Gannett’s scrutiny; and in his face she caught the reflection of her + feeling. After dinner, when she went upstairs, he strolled into the + smoking-room, and an hour or two later, sitting in the darkness of her + window, she heard his voice below and saw him walking up and down the + terrace with a companion cigar at his side. When he came up he told her he + had been talking to the hotel chaplain—a very good sort of fellow. + </p> + <p> + “Queer little microcosms, these hotels! Most of these people live here all + summer and then migrate to Italy or the Riviera. The English are the only + people who can lead that kind of life with dignity—those soft-voiced + old ladies in Shetland shawls somehow carry the British Empire under their + caps. <i>Civis Romanus sum</i>. It’s a curious study—there might be + some good things to work up here.” + </p> + <p> + He stood before her with the vivid preoccupied stare of the novelist on + the trail of a “subject.” With a relief that was half painful she noticed + that, for the first time since they had been together, he was hardly aware + of her presence. “Do you think you could write here?” + </p> + <p> + “Here? I don’t know.” His stare dropped. “After being out of things so + long one’s first impressions are bound to be tremendously vivid, you know. + I see a dozen threads already that one might follow—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off with a touch of embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “Then follow them. We’ll stay,” she said with sudden decision. + </p> + <p> + “Stay here?” He glanced at her in surprise, and then, walking to the + window, looked out upon the dusky slumber of the garden. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she said at length, in a tone of veiled irritation. + </p> + <p> + “The place is full of old cats in caps who gossip with the chaplain. Shall + you like—I mean, it would be different if—” + </p> + <p> + She flamed up. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I care? It’s none of their business.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not; but you won’t get them to think so.” + </p> + <p> + “They may think what they please.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “It’s for you to decide.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll stay,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + Gannett, before they met, had made himself known as a successful writer of + short stories and of a novel which had achieved the distinction of being + widely discussed. The reviewers called him “promising,” and Lydia now + accused herself of having too long interfered with the fulfilment of his + promise. There was a special irony in the fact, since his passionate + assurances that only the stimulus of her companionship could bring out his + latent faculty had almost given the dignity of a “vocation” to her course: + there had been moments when she had felt unable to assume, before + posterity, the responsibility of thwarting his career. And, after all, he + had not written a line since they had been together: his first desire to + write had come from renewed contact with the world! Was it all a mistake + then? Must the most intelligent choice work more disastrously than the + blundering combinations of chance? Or was there a still more humiliating + answer to her perplexities? His sudden impulse of activity so exactly + coincided with her own wish to withdraw, for a time, from the range of his + observation, that she wondered if he too were not seeking sanctuary from + intolerable problems. + </p> + <p> + “You must begin to-morrow!” she cried, hiding a tremor under the laugh + with which she added, “I wonder if there’s any ink in the inkstand?” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Whatever else they had at the Hotel Bellosguardo, they had, as Miss + Pinsent said, “a certain tone.” It was to Lady Susan Condit that they owed + this inestimable benefit; an advantage ranking in Miss Pinsent’s opinion + above even the lawn tennis courts and the resident chaplain. It was the + fact of Lady Susan’s annual visit that made the hotel what it was. Miss + Pinsent was certainly the last to underrate such a privilege:—“It’s + so important, my dear, forming as we do a little family, that there should + be some one to give <i>the tone</i>; and no one could do it better than + Lady Susan—an earl’s daughter and a person of such determination. + Dear Mrs. Ainger now—who really <i>ought</i>, you know, when Lady + Susan’s away—absolutely refuses to assert herself.” Miss Pinsent + sniffed derisively. “A bishop’s niece!—my dear, I saw her once + actually give in to some South Americans—and before us all. She gave + up her seat at table to oblige them—such a lack of dignity! Lady + Susan spoke to her very plainly about it afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Pinsent glanced across the lake and adjusted her auburn front. + </p> + <p> + “But of course I don’t deny that the stand Lady Susan takes is not always + easy to live up to—for the rest of us, I mean. Monsieur Grossart, + our good proprietor, finds it trying at times, I know—he has said as + much, privately, to Mrs. Ainger and me. After all, the poor man is not to + blame for wanting to fill his hotel, is he? And Lady Susan is so difficult—so + very difficult—about new people. One might almost say that she + disapproves of them beforehand, on principle. And yet she’s had warnings—she + very nearly made a dreadful mistake once with the Duchess of Levens, who + dyed her hair and—well, swore and smoked. One would have thought + that might have been a lesson to Lady Susan.” Miss Pinsent resumed her + knitting with a sigh. “There are exceptions, of course. She took at once + to you and Mr. Gannett—it was quite remarkable, really. Oh, I don’t + mean that either—of course not! It was perfectly natural—we <i>all</i> + thought you so charming and interesting from the first day—we knew + at once that Mr. Gannett was intellectual, by the magazines you took in; + but you know what I mean. Lady Susan is so very—well, I won’t say + prejudiced, as Mrs. Ainger does—but so prepared <i>not</i> to like + new people, that her taking to you in that way was a surprise to us all, I + confess.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Pinsent sent a significant glance down the long laurustinus alley + from the other end of which two people—a lady and gentleman—were + strolling toward them through the smiling neglect of the garden. + </p> + <p> + “In this case, of course, it’s very different; that I’m willing to admit. + Their looks are against them; but, as Mrs. Ainger says, one can’t exactly + tell them so.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s very handsome,” Lydia ventured, with her eyes on the lady, who + showed, under the dome of a vivid sunshade, the hour-glass figure and + superlative coloring of a Christmas chromo. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the worst of it. She’s too handsome.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, after all, she can’t help that.” + </p> + <p> + “Other people manage to,” said Miss Pinsent skeptically. + </p> + <p> + “But isn’t it rather unfair of Lady Susan—considering that nothing + is known about them?” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, that’s the very thing that’s against them. It’s infinitely + worse than any actual knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia mentally agreed that, in the case of Mrs. Linton, it possibly might + be. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why they came here?” she mused. + </p> + <p> + “That’s against them too. It’s always a bad sign when loud people come to + a quiet place. And they’ve brought van-loads of boxes—her maid told + Mrs. Ainger’s that they meant to stop indefinitely.” + </p> + <p> + “And Lady Susan actually turned her back on her in the <i>salon?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, she said it was for our sakes: that makes it so unanswerable! + But poor Grossart <i>is</i> in a way! The Lintons have taken his most + expensive <i>suite</i>, you know—the yellow damask drawing-room + above the portico—and they have champagne with every meal!” + </p> + <p> + They were silent as Mr. and Mrs. Linton sauntered by; the lady with + tempestuous brows and challenging chin; the gentleman, a blond stripling, + trailing after her, head downward, like a reluctant child dragged by his + nurse. + </p> + <p> + “What does your husband think of them, my dear?” Miss Pinsent whispered as + they passed out of earshot. + </p> + <p> + Lydia stooped to pick a violet in the border. + </p> + <p> + “He hasn’t told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of your speaking to them, I mean. Would he approve of that? I know how + very particular nice Americans are. I think your action might make a + difference; it would certainly carry weight with Lady Susan.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Miss Pinsent, you flatter me!” + </p> + <p> + Lydia rose and gathered up her book and sunshade. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you’re asked for an opinion—if Lady Susan asks you for one—I + think you ought to be prepared,” Miss Pinsent admonished her as she moved + away. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Lady Susan held her own. She ignored the Lintons, and her little family, + as Miss Pinsent phrased it, followed suit. Even Mrs. Ainger agreed that it + was obligatory. If Lady Susan owed it to the others not to speak to the + Lintons, the others clearly owed it to Lady Susan to back her up. It was + generally found expedient, at the Hotel Bellosguardo, to adopt this form + of reasoning. + </p> + <p> + Whatever effect this combined action may have had upon the Lintons, it did + not at least have that of driving them away. Monsieur Grossart, after a + few days of suspense, had the satisfaction of seeing them settle down in + his yellow damask <i>premier</i> with what looked like a permanent + installation of palm-trees and silk sofa-cushions, and a gratifying + continuance in the consumption of champagne. Mrs. Linton trailed her + Doucet draperies up and down the garden with the same challenging air, + while her husband, smoking innumerable cigarettes, dragged himself + dejectedly in her wake; but neither of them, after the first encounter + with Lady Susan, made any attempt to extend their acquaintance. They + simply ignored their ignorers. As Miss Pinsent resentfully observed, they + behaved exactly as though the hotel were empty. + </p> + <p> + It was therefore a matter of surprise, as well as of displeasure, to + Lydia, to find, on glancing up one day from her seat in the garden, that + the shadow which had fallen across her book was that of the enigmatic Mrs. + Linton. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to you,” that lady said, in a rich hard voice that seemed + the audible expression of her gown and her complexion. + </p> + <p> + Lydia started. She certainly did not want to speak to Mrs. Linton. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I sit down here?” the latter continued, fixing her intensely-shaded + eyes on Lydia’s face, “or are you afraid of being seen with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid?” Lydia colored. “Sit down, please. What is it that you wish to + say?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Linton, with a smile, drew up a garden-chair and crossed one + open-work ankle above the other. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to tell me what my husband said to your husband last night.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia turned pale. + </p> + <p> + “My husband—to yours?” she faltered, staring at the other. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know they were closeted together for hours in the smoking-room + after you went upstairs? My man didn’t get to bed until nearly two o’clock + and when he did I couldn’t get a word out of him. When he wants to be + aggravating I’ll back him against anybody living!” Her teeth and eyes + flashed persuasively upon Lydia. “But you’ll tell me what they were + talking about, won’t you? I know I can trust you—you look so awfully + kind. And it’s for his own good. He’s such a precious donkey and I’m so + afraid he’s got into some beastly scrape or other. If he’d only trust his + own old woman! But they’re always writing to him and setting him against + me. And I’ve got nobody to turn to.” She laid her hand on Lydia’s with a + rattle of bracelets. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia drew back from the smiling fierceness of her brows. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry—but I don’t think I understand. My husband has said + nothing to me of—of yours.” + </p> + <p> + The great black crescents above Mrs. Linton’s eyes met angrily. + </p> + <p> + “I say—is that true?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + Lydia rose from her seat. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look here, I didn’t mean that, you know—you mustn’t take one up + so! Can’t you see how rattled I am?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia saw that, in fact, her beautiful mouth was quivering beneath + softened eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’m beside myself!” the splendid creature wailed, dropping into her seat. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so sorry,” Lydia repeated, forcing herself to speak kindly; “but how + can I help you?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Linton raised her head sharply. + </p> + <p> + “By finding out—there’s a darling!” + </p> + <p> + “Finding what out?” + </p> + <p> + “What Trevenna told him.” + </p> + <p> + “Trevenna—?” Lydia echoed in bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Linton clapped her hand to her mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord—there, it’s out! What a fool I am! But I supposed of + course you knew; I supposed everybody knew.” She dried her eyes and + bridled. “Didn’t you know that he’s Lord Trevenna? I’m Mrs. Cope.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia recognized the names. They had figured in a flamboyant elopement + which had thrilled fashionable London some six months earlier. + </p> + <p> + “Now you see how it is—you understand, don’t you?” Mrs. Cope + continued on a note of appeal. “I knew you would—that’s the reason I + came to you. I suppose <i>he</i> felt the same thing about your husband; + he’s not spoken to another soul in the place.” Her face grew anxious + again. “He’s awfully sensitive, generally—he feels our position, he + says—as if it wasn’t <i>my</i> place to feel that! But when he does + get talking there’s no knowing what he’ll say. I know he’s been brooding + over something lately, and I <i>must</i> find out what it is—it’s to + his interest that I should. I always tell him that I think only of his + interest; if he’d only trust me! But he’s been so odd lately—I can’t + think what he’s plotting. You will help me, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia, who had remained standing, looked away uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean by finding out what Lord Trevenna has told my husband, I’m + afraid it’s impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Why impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I infer that it was told in confidence.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cope stared incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of that? Your husband looks such a dear—any one can see + he’s awfully gone on you. What’s to prevent your getting it out of him?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia flushed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a spy!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “A spy—a spy? How dare you?” Mrs. Cope flamed out. “Oh, I don’t mean + that either! Don’t be angry with me—I’m so miserable.” She essayed a + softer note. “Do you call that spying—for one woman to help out + another? I do need help so dreadfully! I’m at my wits’ end with Trevenna, + I am indeed. He’s such a boy—a mere baby, you know; he’s only + two-and-twenty.” She dropped her orbed lids. “He’s younger than me—only + fancy! a few months younger. I tell him he ought to listen to me as if I + was his mother; oughtn’t he now? But he won’t, he won’t! All his people + are at him, you see—oh, I know <i>their</i> little game! Trying to + get him away from me before I can get my divorce—that’s what they’re + up to. At first he wouldn’t listen to them; he used to toss their letters + over to me to read; but now he reads them himself, and answers ‘em too, I + fancy; he’s always shut up in his room, writing. If I only knew what his + plan is I could stop him fast enough—he’s such a simpleton. But he’s + dreadfully deep too—at times I can’t make him out. But I know he’s + told your husband everything—I knew that last night the minute I + laid eyes on him. And I <i>must</i> find out—you must help me—I’ve + got no one else to turn to!” + </p> + <p> + She caught Lydia’s fingers in a stormy pressure. + </p> + <p> + “Say you’ll help me—you and your husband.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia tried to free herself. + </p> + <p> + “What you ask is impossible; you must see that it is. No one could + interfere in—in the way you ask.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cope’s clutch tightened. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t, then? You won’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. Let me go, please.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cope released her with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go by all means—pray don’t let me detain you! Shall you go and + tell Lady Susan Condit that there’s a pair of us—or shall I save you + the trouble of enlightening her?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia stood still in the middle of the path, seeing her antagonist through + a mist of terror. Mrs. Cope was still laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m not spiteful by nature, my dear; but you’re a little more than + flesh and blood can stand! It’s impossible, is it? Let you go, indeed! + You’re too good to be mixed up in my affairs, are you? Why, you little + fool, the first day I laid eyes on you I saw that you and I were both in + the same box—that’s the reason I spoke to you.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped nearer, her smile dilating on Lydia like a lamp through a fog. + </p> + <p> + “You can take your choice, you know; I always play fair. If you’ll tell + I’ll promise not to. Now then, which is it to be?” + </p> + <p> + Lydia, involuntarily, had begun to move away from the pelting storm of + words; but at this she turned and sat down again. + </p> + <p> + “You may go,” she said simply. “I shall stay here.” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + She stayed there for a long time, in the hypnotized contemplation, not of + Mrs. Cope’s present, but of her own past. Gannett, early that morning, had + gone off on a long walk—he had fallen into the habit of taking these + mountain-tramps with various fellow-lodgers; but even had he been within + reach she could not have gone to him just then. She had to deal with + herself first. She was surprised to find how, in the last months, she had + lost the habit of introspection. Since their coming to the Hotel + Bellosguardo she and Gannett had tacitly avoided themselves and each + other. + </p> + <p> + She was aroused by the whistle of the three o’clock steamboat as it neared + the landing just beyond the hotel gates. Three o’clock! Then Gannett would + soon be back—he had told her to expect him before four. She rose + hurriedly, her face averted from the inquisitorial facade of the hotel. + She could not see him just yet; she could not go indoors. She slipped + through one of the overgrown garden-alleys and climbed a steep path to the + hills. + </p> + <p> + It was dark when she opened their sitting-room door. Gannett was sitting + on the window-ledge smoking a cigarette. Cigarettes were now his chief + resource: he had not written a line during the two months they had spent + at the Hotel Bellosguardo. In that respect, it had turned out not to be + the right <i>milieu</i> after all. + </p> + <p> + He started up at Lydia’s entrance. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been? I was getting anxious.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down in a chair near the door. + </p> + <p> + “Up the mountain,” she said wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett threw away his cigarette: the sound of her voice made him want to + see her face. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we have a little light?” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + She made no answer and he lifted the globe from the lamp and put a match + to the wick. Then he looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Anything wrong? You look done up.” + </p> + <p> + She sat glancing vaguely about the little sitting-room, dimly lit by the + pallid-globed lamp, which left in twilight the outlines of the furniture, + of his writing-table heaped with books and papers, of the tea-roses and + jasmine drooping on the mantel-piece. How like home it had all grown—how + like home! + </p> + <p> + “Lydia, what is wrong?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + She moved away from him, feeling for her hatpins and turning to lay her + hat and sunshade on the table. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she said: “That woman has been talking to me.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett stared. + </p> + <p> + “That woman? What woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Linton—Mrs. Cope.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a start of annoyance, still, as she perceived, not grasping the + full import of her words. + </p> + <p> + “The deuce! She told you—?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me everything.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett looked at her anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “What impudence! I’m so sorry that you should have been exposed to this, + dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Exposed!” Lydia laughed. + </p> + <p> + Gannett’s brow clouded and they looked away from each other. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know <i>why</i> she told me? She had the best of reasons. The + first time she laid eyes on me she saw that we were both in the same box.” + </p> + <p> + “Lydia!” + </p> + <p> + “So it was natural, of course, that she should turn to me in a + difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + “What difficulty?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems she has reason to think that Lord Trevenna’s people are trying + to get him away from her before she gets her divorce—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And she fancied he had been consulting with you last night as to—as + to the best way of escaping from her.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett stood up with an angry forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Well—what concern of yours was all this dirty business? Why should + she go to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you see? It’s so simple. I was to wheedle his secret out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “To oblige that woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; or, if I was unwilling to oblige her, then to protect myself.” + </p> + <p> + “To protect yourself? Against whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Against her telling every one in the hotel that she and I are in the same + box.” + </p> + <p> + “She threatened that?” + </p> + <p> + “She left me the choice of telling it myself or of doing it for me.” + </p> + <p> + “The beast!” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. Lydia had seated herself on the sofa, beyond the + radius of the lamp, and he leaned against the window. His next question + surprised her. + </p> + <p> + “When did this happen? At what time, I mean?” She looked at him vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—after luncheon, I think. Yes, I remember; it must have + been at about three o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + He stepped into the middle of the room and as he approached the light she + saw that his brow had cleared. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Because when I came in, at about half-past three, the mail was just being + distributed, and Mrs. Cope was waiting as usual to pounce on her letters; + you know she was always watching for the postman. She was standing so + close to me that I couldn’t help seeing a big official-looking envelope + that was handed to her. She tore it open, gave one look at the inside, and + rushed off upstairs like a whirlwind, with the director shouting after her + that she had left all her other letters behind. I don’t believe she ever + thought of you again after that paper was put into her hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she was too busy. I was sitting in the window, watching for you, + when the five o’clock boat left, and who should go on board, bag and + baggage, valet and maid, dressing-bags and poodle, but Mrs. Cope and + Trevenna. Just an hour and a half to pack up in! And you should have seen + her when they started. She was radiant—shaking hands with everybody—waving + her handkerchief from the deck—distributing bows and smiles like an + empress. If ever a woman got what she wanted just in the nick of time that + woman did. She’ll be Lady Trevenna within a week, I’ll wager.” + </p> + <p> + “You think she has her divorce?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure of it. And she must have got it just after her talk with you.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia was silent. + </p> + <p> + At length she said, with a kind of reluctance, “She was horribly angry + when she left me. It wouldn’t have taken long to tell Lady Susan Condit.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Susan Condit has not been told.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Because when I went downstairs half an hour ago I met Lady Susan on the + way—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, half smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “And she stopped to ask if I thought you would act as patroness to a + charity concert she is getting up.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of themselves they both broke into a laugh. Lydia’s ended in sobs + and she sank down with her face hidden. Gannett bent over her, seeking her + hands. + </p> + <p> + “That vile woman—I ought to have warned you to keep away from her; I + can’t forgive myself! But he spoke to me in confidence; and I never + dreamed—well, it’s all over now.” + </p> + <p> + Lydia lifted her head. + </p> + <p> + “Not for me. It’s only just beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She put him gently aside and moved in her turn to the window. Then she + went on, with her face turned toward the shimmering blackness of the lake, + “You see of course that it might happen again at any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “This—this risk of being found out. And we could hardly count again + on such a lucky combination of chances, could we?” + </p> + <p> + He sat down with a groan. + </p> + <p> + Still keeping her face toward the darkness, she said, “I want you to go + and tell Lady Susan—and the others.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett, who had moved towards her, paused a few feet off. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you wish me to do this?” he said at length, with less surprise in + his voice than she had been prepared for. + </p> + <p> + “Because I’ve behaved basely, abominably, since we came here: letting + these people believe we were married—lying with every breath I drew—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ve felt that too,” Gannett exclaimed with sudden energy. + </p> + <p> + The words shook her like a tempest: all her thoughts seemed to fall about + her in ruins. + </p> + <p> + “You—you’ve felt so?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I have.” He spoke with low-voiced vehemence. “Do you suppose I + like playing the sneak any better than you do? It’s damnable.” + </p> + <p> + He had dropped on the arm of a chair, and they stared at each other like + blind people who suddenly see. + </p> + <p> + “But you have liked it here,” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve liked it—I’ve liked it.” He moved impatiently. “Haven’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she burst out; “that’s the worst of it—that’s what I can’t + bear. I fancied it was for your sake that I insisted on staying—because + you thought you could write here; and perhaps just at first that really + was the reason. But afterwards I wanted to stay myself—I loved it.” + She broke into a laugh. “Oh, do you see the full derision of it? These + people—the very prototypes of the bores you took me away from, with + the same fenced—in view of life, the same keep-off-the-grass + morality, the same little cautious virtues and the same little frightened + vices—well, I’ve clung to them, I’ve delighted in them, I’ve done my + best to please them. I’ve toadied Lady Susan, I’ve gossiped with Miss + Pinsent, I’ve pretended to be shocked with Mrs. Ainger. Respectability! It + was the one thing in life that I was sure I didn’t care about, and it’s + grown so precious to me that I’ve stolen it because I couldn’t get it in + any other way.” + </p> + <p> + She moved across the room and returned to his side with another laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I who used to fancy myself unconventional! I must have been born with a + card-case in my hand. You should have seen me with that poor woman in the + garden. She came to me for help, poor creature, because she fancied that, + having ‘sinned,’ as they call it, I might feel some pity for others who + had been tempted in the same way. Not I! She didn’t know me. Lady Susan + would have been kinder, because Lady Susan wouldn’t have been afraid. I + hated the woman—my one thought was not to be seen with her—I + could have killed her for guessing my secret. The one thing that mattered + to me at that moment was my standing with Lady Susan!” + </p> + <p> + Gannett did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “And you—you’ve felt it too!” she broke out accusingly. “You’ve + enjoyed being with these people as much as I have; you’ve let the chaplain + talk to you by the hour about ‘The Reign of Law’ and Professor Drummond. + When they asked you to hand the plate in church I was watching you—<i>you + wanted to accept.”</i> + </p> + <p> + She stepped close, laying her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, I begin to see what marriage is for. It’s to keep people + away from each other. Sometimes I think that two people who love each + other can be saved from madness only by the things that come between them—children, + duties, visits, bores, relations—the things that protect married + people from each other. We’ve been too close together—that has been + our sin. We’ve seen the nakedness of each other’s souls.” + </p> + <p> + She sank again on the sofa, hiding her face in her hands. + </p> + <p> + Gannett stood above her perplexedly: he felt as though she were being + swept away by some implacable current while he stood helpless on its bank. + </p> + <p> + At length he said, “Lydia, don’t think me a brute—but don’t you see + yourself that it won’t do?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see it won’t do,” she said without raising her head. + </p> + <p> + His face cleared. + </p> + <p> + “Then we’ll go to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Go—where?” + </p> + <p> + “To Paris; to be married.” + </p> + <p> + For a long time she made no answer; then she asked slowly, “Would they + have us here if we were married?” + </p> + <p> + “Have us here?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean Lady Susan—and the others.” + </p> + <p> + “Have us here? Of course they would.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if they knew—at least, not unless they could pretend not to + know.” + </p> + <p> + He made an impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + “We shouldn’t come back here, of course; and other people needn’t know—no + one need know.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed. “Then it’s only another form of deception and a meaner one. + Don’t you see that?” + </p> + <p> + “I see that we’re not accountable to any Lady Susans on earth!” + </p> + <p> + “Then why are you ashamed of what we are doing here?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m sick of pretending that you’re my wife when you’re not—when + you won’t be.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him sadly. + </p> + <p> + “If I were your wife you’d have to go on pretending. You’d have to pretend + that I’d never been—anything else. And our friends would have to + pretend that they believed what you pretended.” + </p> + <p> + Gannett pulled off the sofa-tassel and flung it away. + </p> + <p> + “You’re impossible,” he groaned. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not I—it’s our being together that’s impossible. I only want + you to see that marriage won’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + “What will help it then?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her head. + </p> + <p> + “My leaving you.” + </p> + <p> + “Your leaving me?” He sat motionless, staring at the tassel which lay at + the other end of the room. At length some impulse of retaliation for the + pain she was inflicting made him say deliberately: + </p> + <p> + “And where would you go if you left me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He was at her side in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “Lydia—Lydia—you know I didn’t mean it; I couldn’t mean it! + But you’ve driven me out of my senses; I don’t know what I’m saying. Can’t + you get out of this labyrinth of self-torture? It’s destroying us both.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why I must leave you.” + </p> + <p> + “How easily you say it!” He drew her hands down and made her face him. + “You’re very scrupulous about yourself—and others. But have you + thought of me? You have no right to leave me unless you’ve ceased to care—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s because I care—” + </p> + <p> + “Then I have a right to be heard. If you love me you can’t leave me.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes defied him. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + He dropped her hands and rose from her side. + </p> + <p> + “Can you?” he said sadly. + </p> + <p> + The hour was late and the lamp flickered and sank. She stood up with a + shiver and turned toward the door of her room. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + At daylight a sound in Lydia’s room woke Gannett from a troubled sleep. He + sat up and listened. She was moving about softly, as though fearful of + disturbing him. He heard her push back one of the creaking shutters; then + there was a moment’s silence, which seemed to indicate that she was + waiting to see if the noise had roused him. + </p> + <p> + Presently she began to move again. She had spent a sleepless night, + probably, and was dressing to go down to the garden for a breath of air. + Gannett rose also; but some undefinable instinct made his movements as + cautious as hers. He stole to his window and looked out through the slats + of the shutter. + </p> + <p> + It had rained in the night and the dawn was gray and lifeless. The + cloud-muffled hills across the lake were reflected in its surface as in a + tarnished mirror. In the garden, the birds were beginning to shake the + drops from the motionless laurustinus-boughs. + </p> + <p> + An immense pity for Lydia filled Gannett’s soul. Her seeming intellectual + independence had blinded him for a time to the feminine cast of her mind. + He had never thought of her as a woman who wept and clung: there was a + lucidity in her intuitions that made them appear to be the result of + reasoning. Now he saw the cruelty he had committed in detaching her from + the normal conditions of life; he felt, too, the insight with which she + had hit upon the real cause of their suffering. Their life was + “impossible,” as she had said—and its worst penalty was that it had + made any other life impossible for them. Even had his love lessened, he + was bound to her now by a hundred ties of pity and self-reproach; and she, + poor child! must turn back to him as Latude returned to his cell.... + </p> + <p> + A new sound startled him: it was the stealthy closing of Lydia’s door. He + crept to his own and heard her footsteps passing down the corridor. Then + he went back to the window and looked out. + </p> + <p> + A minute or two later he saw her go down the steps of the porch and enter + the garden. From his post of observation her face was invisible, but + something about her appearance struck him. She wore a long travelling + cloak and under its folds he detected the outline of a bag or bundle. He + drew a deep breath and stood watching her. + </p> + <p> + She walked quickly down the laurustinus alley toward the gate; there she + paused a moment, glancing about the little shady square. The stone benches + under the trees were empty, and she seemed to gather resolution from the + solitude about her, for she crossed the square to the steam-boat landing, + and he saw her pause before the ticket-office at the head of the wharf. + Now she was buying her ticket. Gannett turned his head a moment to look at + the clock: the boat was due in five minutes. He had time to jump into his + clothes and overtake her— + </p> + <p> + He made no attempt to move; an obscure reluctance restrained him. If any + thought emerged from the tumult of his sensations, it was that he must let + her go if she wished it. He had spoken last night of his rights: what were + they? At the last issue, he and she were two separate beings, not made one + by the miracle of common forbearances, duties, abnegations, but bound + together in a <i>noyade</i> of passion that left them resisting yet + clinging as they went down. + </p> + <p> + After buying her ticket, Lydia had stood for a moment looking out across + the lake; then he saw her seat herself on one of the benches near the + landing. He and she, at that moment, were both listening for the same + sound: the whistle of the boat as it rounded the nearest promontory. + Gannett turned again to glance at the clock: the boat was due now. + </p> + <p> + Where would she go? What would her life be when she had left him? She had + no near relations and few friends. There was money enough ... but she + asked so much of life, in ways so complex and immaterial. He thought of + her as walking bare-footed through a stony waste. No one would understand + her—no one would pity her—and he, who did both, was powerless + to come to her aid.... + </p> + <p> + He saw that she had risen from the bench and walked toward the edge of the + lake. She stood looking in the direction from which the steamboat was to + come; then she turned to the ticket-office, doubtless to ask the cause of + the delay. After that she went back to the bench and sat down with bent + head. What was she thinking of? + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounded; she started up, and Gannett involuntarily made a + movement toward the door. But he turned back and continued to watch her. + She stood motionless, her eyes on the trail of smoke that preceded the + appearance of the boat. Then the little craft rounded the point, a + dead-white object on the leaden water: a minute later it was puffing and + backing at the wharf. + </p> + <p> + The few passengers who were waiting—two or three peasants and a + snuffy priest—were clustered near the ticket-office. Lydia stood + apart under the trees. + </p> + <p> + The boat lay alongside now; the gang-plank was run out and the peasants + went on board with their baskets of vegetables, followed by the priest. + Still Lydia did not move. A bell began to ring querulously; there was a + shriek of steam, and some one must have called to her that she would be + late, for she started forward, as though in answer to a summons. She moved + waveringly, and at the edge of the wharf she paused. Gannett saw a sailor + beckon to her; the bell rang again and she stepped upon the gang-plank. + </p> + <p> + Half-way down the short incline to the deck she stopped again; then she + turned and ran back to the land. The gang-plank was drawn in, the bell + ceased to ring, and the boat backed out into the lake. Lydia, with slow + steps, was walking toward the garden.... + </p> + <p> + As she approached the hotel she looked up furtively and Gannett drew back + into the room. He sat down beside a table; a Bradshaw lay at his elbow, + and mechanically, without knowing what he did, he began looking out the + trains to Paris.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A COWARD + </h2> + <p> + “My daughter Irene,” said Mrs. Carstyle (she made it rhyme with <i>tureen</i>), + “has had no social advantages; but if Mr. Carstyle had chosen—” she + paused significantly and looked at the shabby sofa on the opposite side of + the fire-place as though it had been Mr. Carstyle. Vibart was glad that it + was not. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Carstyle was one of the women who make refinement vulgar. She + invariably spoke of her husband as <i>Mr. Carstyle</i> and, though she had + but one daughter, was always careful to designate the young lady by name. + At luncheon she had talked a great deal of elevating influences and + ideals, and had fluctuated between apologies for the overdone mutton and + affected surprise that the bewildered maid-servant should have forgotten + to serve the coffee and liqueurs <i>as usual</i>. + </p> + <p> + Vibart was almost sorry that he had come. Miss Carstyle was still + beautiful—almost as beautiful as when, two days earlier, against the + leafy background of a June garden-party, he had seen her for the first + time—but her mother’s expositions and elucidations cheapened her + beauty as sign-posts vulgarize a woodland solitude. Mrs. Carstyle’s eye + was perpetually plying between her daughter and Vibart, like an empty cab + in quest of a fare. Miss Carstyle, the young man decided, was the kind of + girl whose surroundings rub off on her; or was it rather that Mrs. + Carstyle’s idiosyncrasies were of a nature to color every one within + reach? Vibart, looking across the table as this consolatory alternative + occurred to him, was sure that they had not colored Mr. Carstyle; but + that, perhaps, was only because they had bleached him instead. Mr. + Carstyle was quite colorless; it would have been impossible to guess his + native tint. His wife’s qualities, if they had affected him at all, had + acted negatively. He did not apologize for the mutton, and he wandered off + after luncheon without pretending to wait for the diurnal coffee and + liqueurs; while the few remarks that he had contributed to the + conversation during the meal had not been in the direction of abstract + conceptions of life. As he strayed away, with his vague oblique step, and + the stoop that suggested the habit of dodging missiles, Vibart, who was + still in the age of formulas, found himself wondering what life could be + worth to a man who had evidently resigned himself to travelling with his + back to the wind; so that Mrs. Carstyle’s allusion to her daughter’s lack + of advantages (imparted while Irene searched the house for an + undiscoverable cigarette) had an appositeness unintended by the speaker. + </p> + <p> + “If Mr. Carstyle had chosen,” that lady repeated, “we might have had our + city home” (she never used so small a word as town) “and Ireen could have + mixed in the society to which I myself was accustomed at her age.” Her + sigh pointed unmistakably to a past when young men had come to luncheon to + see <i>her</i>. + </p> + <p> + The sigh led Vibart to look at her, and the look led him to the unwelcome + conclusion that Irene “took after” her mother. It was certainly not from + the sapless paternal stock that the girl had drawn her warm bloom: Mrs. + Carstyle had contributed the high lights to the picture. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Carstyle caught his look and appropriated it with the complacency of + a vicarious beauty. She was quite aware of the value of her appearance as + guaranteeing Irene’s development into a fine woman. + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps,” she continued, taking up the thread of her explanation, + “you have heard of Mr. Carstyle’s extraordinary hallucination. Mr. + Carstyle knows that I call it so—as I tell him, it is the most + charitable view to take.” + </p> + <p> + She looked coldly at the threadbare sofa and indulgently at the young man + who filled a corner of it. + </p> + <p> + “You may think it odd, Mr. Vibart, that I should take you into my + confidence in this way after so short an acquaintance, but somehow I can’t + help regarding you as a friend already. I believe in those intuitive + sympathies, don’t you? They have never misled me—” her lids drooped + retrospectively—“and besides, I always tell Mr. Carstyle that on + this point I will have no false pretences. Where truth is concerned I am + inexorable, and I consider it my duty to let our friends know that our + restricted way of living is due entirely to choice—to Mr. Carstyle’s + choice. When I married Mr. Carstyle it was with the expectation of living + in New York and of keeping my carriage; and there is no reason for our not + doing so—there is no reason, Mr. Vibart, why my daughter Ireen + should have been denied the intellectual advantages of foreign travel. I + wish that to be understood. It is owing to her father’s deliberate choice + that Ireen and I have been imprisoned in the narrow limits of Millbrook + society. For myself I do not complain. If Mr. Carstyle chooses to place + others before his wife it is not for his wife to repine. His course may be + noble—Quixotic; I do not allow myself to pronounce judgment on it, + though others have thought that in sacrificing his own family to strangers + he was violating the most sacred obligations of domestic life. This is the + opinion of my pastor and of other valued friends; but, as I have always + told them, for myself I make no claims. Where my daughter Ireen is + concerned it is different—” + </p> + <p> + It was a relief to Vibart when, at this point, Mrs. Carstyle’s discharge + of her duty was cut short by her daughter’s reappearance. Irene had been + unable to find a cigarette for Mr. Vibart, and her mother, with beaming + irrelevance, suggested that in that case she had better show him the + garden. + </p> + <p> + The Carstyle house stood but a few yards back from the brick-paved + Millbrook street, and the garden was a very small place, unless measured, + as Mrs. Carstyle probably intended that it should be, by the extent of her + daughter’s charms. These were so considerable that Vibart walked back and + forward half a dozen times between the porch and the gate, before he + discovered the limitations of the Carstyle domain. It was not till Irene + had accused him of being sarcastic and had confided in him that “the + girls” were furious with her for letting him talk to her so long at his + aunt’s garden-party, that he awoke to the exiguity of his surroundings; + and then it was with a touch of irritation that he noticed Mr. Carstyle’s + inconspicuous profile bent above a newspaper in one of the lower windows. + Vibart had an idea that Mr. Carstyle, while ostensibly reading the paper, + had kept count of the number of times that his daughter had led her + companion up and down between the syringa-bushes; and for some undefinable + reason he resented Mr. Carstyle’s unperturbed observation more than his + wife’s zealous self-effacement. To a man who is trying to please a pretty + girl there are moments when the proximity of an impartial spectator is + more disconcerting than the most obvious connivance; and something about + Mr. Carstyle’s expression conveyed his good-humored indifference to + Irene’s processes. + </p> + <p> + When the garden-gate closed behind Vibart he had become aware that his + preoccupation with the Carstyles had shifted its centre from the daughter + to the father; but he was accustomed to such emotional surprises, and + skilled in seizing any compensations they might offer. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The Carstyles belonged to the all-the-year-round Millbrook of paper-mills, + cable-cars, brick pavements and church sociables, while Mrs. Vance, the + aunt with whom Vibart lived, was an ornament of the summer colony whose + big country-houses dotted the surrounding hills. Mrs. Vance had, however, + no difficulty in appeasing the curiosity which Mrs. Carstyle’s enigmatic + utterances had aroused in the young man. Mrs. Carstyle’s relentless + veracity vented itself mainly on the “summer people,” as they were called: + she did not propose that any one within ten miles of Millbrook should keep + a carriage without knowing that she was entitled to keep one too. Mrs. + Vance remarked with a sigh that Mrs. Carstyle’s annual demand to have her + position understood came in as punctually as the taxes and the + water-rates. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it’s simply this: when Andrew Carstyle married her years ago—Heaven + knows why he did; he’s one of the Albany Carstyles, you know, and she was + a daughter of old Deacon Ash of South Millbrook—well, when he + married her he had a tidy little income, and I suppose the bride expected + to set up an establishment in New York and be hand-in-glove with the whole + Carstyle clan. But whether he was ashamed of her from the first, or for + some other unexplained reason, he bought a country-place and settled down + here for life. For a few years they lived comfortably enough, and she had + plenty of smart clothes, and drove about in a victoria calling on the + summer people. Then, when the beautiful Irene was about ten years old, Mr. + Carstyle’s only brother died, and it turned out that he had made away with + a lot of trust-property. It was a horrid business: over three hundred + thousand dollars were gone, and of course most of it had belonged to + widows and orphans. As soon as the facts were made known, Andrew Carstyle + announced that he would pay back what his brother had stolen. He sold his + country-place and his wife’s carriage, and they moved to the little house + they live in now. Mr. Carstyle’s income is probably not as large as his + wife would like to have it thought, and though I’m told he puts aside, a + good part of it every year to pay off his brother’s obligations, I fancy + the debt won’t be discharged for some time to come. To help things along + he opened a law office—he had studied law in his youth—but + though he is said to be clever I hear that he has very little to do. + People are afraid of him: he’s too dry and quiet. Nobody believes in a man + who doesn’t believe in himself, and Mr. Carstyle always seems to be + winking at you through a slit in his professional manner. People don’t + like it—his wife doesn’t like it. I believe she would have accepted + the sacrifice of the country-place and the carriage if he had struck an + attitude and talked about doing his duty. It was his regarding the whole + thing as a matter of course that exasperated her. What is the use of doing + something difficult in a way that makes it look perfectly easy? I feel + sorry for Mrs. Carstyle. She’s lost her house and her carriage, and she + hasn’t been allowed to be heroic.” + </p> + <p> + Vibart had listened attentively. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what Miss Carstyle thinks of it?” he mused. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vance looked at him with a tentative smile. “I wonder what <i>you</i> + think of Miss Carstyle?” she returned, + </p> + <p> + His answer reassured her. + </p> + <p> + “I think she takes after her mother,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” cried his aunt cheerfully, “then I needn’t write to <i>your</i> + mother, and I can have Irene at all my parties!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Carstyle was an important factor in the restricted social + combinations of a Millbrook hostess. A local beauty is always a useful + addition to a Saturday-to-Monday house-party, and the beautiful Irene was + served up as a perennial novelty to the jaded guests of the summer colony. + As Vibart’s aunt remarked, she was perfect till she became playful, and + she never became playful till the third day. + </p> + <p> + Under these conditions, it was natural that Vibart should see a good deal + of the young lady, and before he was aware of it he had drifted into the + anomalous position of paying court to the daughter in order to ingratiate + himself with the father. Miss Carstyle was beautiful, Vibart was young, + and the days were long in his aunt’s spacious and distinguished house; but + it was really the desire to know something more of Mr. Carstyle that led + the young man to partake so often of that gentleman’s overdone mutton. + Vibart’s imagination had been touched by the discovery that this little + huddled-up man, instead of travelling with the wind, was persistently + facing a domestic gale of considerable velocity. That he should have paid + off his brother’s debt at one stroke was to the young man a conceivable + feat; but that he should go on methodically and uninterruptedly + accumulating the needed amount, under the perpetual accusation of Irene’s + inadequate frocks and Mrs. Carstyle’s apologies for the mutton, seemed to + Vibart proof of unexampled heroism. Mr. Carstyle was as inaccessible as + the average American parent, and led a life so detached from the + preoccupations of his womankind that Vibart had some difficulty in fixing + his attention. To Mr. Carstyle, Vibart was simply the inevitable young man + who had been hanging about the house ever since Irene had left school; and + Vibart’s efforts to differentiate himself from this enamored abstraction + were hampered by Mrs. Carstyle’s cheerful assumption that he <i>was</i> + the young man, and by Irene’s frank appropriation of his visits. + </p> + <p> + In this extremity he suddenly observed a slight but significant change in + the manner of the two ladies. Irene, instead of charging him with being + sarcastic and horrid, and declaring herself unable to believe a word he + said, began to receive his remarks with the impersonal smile which he had + seen her accord to the married men of his aunt’s house-parties; while Mrs. + Carstyle, talking over his head to an invisible but evidently sympathetic + and intelligent listener, debated the propriety of Irene’s accepting an + invitation to spend the month of August at Narragansett. When Vibart, + rashly trespassing on the rights of this unseen oracle, remarked that a + few weeks at the seashore would make a delightful change for Miss + Carstyle, the ladies looked at him and then laughed. + </p> + <p> + It was at this point that Vibart, for the first time, found himself + observed by Mr. Carstyle. They were grouped about the debris of a luncheon + which had ended precipitously with veal stew (Mrs. Carstyle explaining + that poor cooks <i>always</i> failed with their sweet dish when there was + company) and Mr. Carstyle, his hands thrust in his pockets, his lean + baggy-coated shoulders pressed against his chair-back, sat contemplating + his guest with a smile of unmistakable approval. When Vibart caught his + eye the smile vanished, and Mr. Carstyle, dropping his glasses from the + bridge of his thin nose, looked out of the window with the expression of a + man determined to prove an alibi. But Vibart was sure of the smile: it had + established, between his host and himself, a complicity which Mr. + Carstyle’s attempted evasion served only to confirm. + </p> + <p> + On the strength of this incident Vibart, a few days later, called at Mr. + Carstyle’s office. Ostensibly, the young man had come to ask, on his + aunt’s behalf, some question on a point at issue between herself and the + Millbrook telephone company; but his purpose in offering to perform the + errand had been the hope of taking up his intercourse with Mr. Carstyle + where that gentleman’s smile had left it. Vibart was not disappointed. In + a dingy office, with a single window looking out on a blank wall, he found + Mr. Carstyle, in an alpaca coat, reading Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + It evidently did not occur to him that Vibart had come on business, and + the warmth of his welcome gave the young man a sense of furnishing the + last word in a conjugal argument in which, for once, Mr. Carstyle had come + off triumphant. + </p> + <p> + The legal question disposed of, Vibart reverted to Montaigne: had Mr. + Carstyle seen young So-and-so’s volume of essays? There was one on + Montaigne that had a decided flavor: the point of view was curious. Vibart + was surprised to find that Mr. Carstyle had heard of young So-and-so. + Clever young men are given to thinking that their elders have never got + beyond Macaulay; but Mr. Carstyle seemed sufficiently familiar with recent + literature not to take it too seriously. He accepted Vibart’s offer of + young So-and-so’s volume, admitting that his own library was not exactly + up-to-date. + </p> + <p> + Vibart went away musing. The next day he came back with the volume of + essays. It seemed to be tacitly understood that he was to call at the + office when he wished to see Mr. Carstyle, whose legal engagements did not + seriously interfere with the pursuit of literature. + </p> + <p> + For a week or ten days Mrs. Carstyle, in Vibart’s presence, continued to + take counsel with her unseen adviser on the subject of her daughter’s + visit to Narragansett. Once or twice Irene dropped her impersonal smile to + tax Vibart with not caring whether she went or not; and Mrs. Carstyle + seized a moment of <i>tête-à-tête</i> to confide in him that the dear + child hated the idea of leaving, and was going only because her friend + Mrs. Higby would not let her off. Of course, if it had not been for Mr. + Carstyle’s peculiarities they would have had their own seaside home—at + Newport, probably: Mrs. Carstyle preferred the tone of Newport—and + Irene would not have been dependent on the <i>charity</i> of her friends; + but as it was, they must be thankful for small mercies, and Mrs. Higby was + certainly very kind in her way, and had a charming social position—for + Narragansett. + </p> + <p> + These confidences, however, were soon superseded by an exchange, between + mother and daughter, of increasingly frequent allusions to the delights of + Narragansett, the popularity of Mrs. Higby, and the jolliness of her + house; with an occasional reference on Mrs. Carstyle’s part to the + probability of Hewlett Bain’s being there as usual—hadn’t Irene + heard from Mrs. Higby that he was to be there? Upon this note Miss + Carstyle at length departed, leaving Vibart to the undisputed enjoyment of + her father’s company. + </p> + <p> + Vibart had at no time a keen taste for the summer joys of Millbrook, and + the family obligation which, for several months of the year, kept him at + his aunt’s side (Mrs. Vance was a childless widow and he filled the + onerous post of favorite nephew) gave a sense of compulsion to the light + occupations that chequered his leisure. Mrs. Vance, who fancied herself + lonely when he was away, was too much engaged with notes, telegrams and + arriving and departing guests, to do more than breathlessly smile upon his + presence, or implore him to take the dullest girl of the party for a drive + (and would he go by way of Millbrook, like a dear, and stop at the market + to ask why the lobsters hadn’t come?); and the house itself, and the + guests who came and went in it like people rushing through a + railway-station, offered no points of repose to his thoughts. Some houses + are companions in themselves: the walls, the book-shelves, the very chairs + and tables, have the qualities of a sympathetic mind; but Mrs. Vance’s + interior was as impersonal as the setting of a classic drama. + </p> + <p> + These conditions made Vibart cultivate an assiduous exchange of books + between himself and Mr. Carstyle. The young man went down almost daily to + the little house in the town, where Mrs. Carstyle, who had now an air of + receiving him in curl-papers, and of not always immediately distinguishing + him from the piano-tuner, made no effort to detain him on his way to her + husband’s study. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Now and then, at the close of one of Vibart’s visits, Mr. Carstyle put on + a mildewed Panama hat and accompanied the young man for a mile or two on + his way home. The road to Mrs. Vance’s lay through one of the most amiable + suburbs of Millbrook, and Mr. Carstyle, walking with his slow uneager + step, his hat pushed back, and his stick dragging behind him, seemed to + take a philosophic pleasure in the aspect of the trim lawns and opulent + gardens. + </p> + <p> + Vibart could never induce his companion to prolong his walk as far as Mrs. + Vance’s drawing-room; but one afternoon, when the distant hills lay blue + beyond the twilight of overarching elms, the two men strolled on into the + country past that lady’s hospitable gateposts. + </p> + <p> + It was a still day, the road was deserted, and every sound came sharply + through the air. Mr. Carstyle was in the midst of a disquisition on + Diderot, when he raised his head and stood still. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he said. “Listen!” + </p> + <p> + Vibart listened and heard a distant storm of hoof-beats. A moment later, a + buggy drawn by a pair of trotters swung round the turn of the road. It was + about thirty yards off, coming toward them at full speed. The man who + drove was leaning forward with outstretched arms; beside him sat a girl. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Vibart saw Mr. Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in + front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs + apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment + Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand. + </p> + <p> + “They’re not running!” Vibart shouted, springing into the road and + catching Mr. Carstyle’s alpaca sleeve. The older man looked around + vaguely: he seemed dazed. + </p> + <p> + “Come away, sir, come away!” cried Vibart, gripping his arm. The buggy + swept past them, and Mr. Carstyle stood in the dust gazing after it. + </p> + <p> + At length he drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was very + pale and Vibart noticed that his hand shook. + </p> + <p> + “That was a close call, sir, wasn’t it? I suppose you thought they were + running.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mr. Carstyle slowly, “I thought they were running.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly looked like it for a minute. Let’s sit down, shall we? I + feel rather breathless myself.” + </p> + <p> + Vibart saw that his friend could hardly stand. They seated themselves on a + tree-trunk by the roadside, and Mr. Carstyle continued to wipe his + forehead in silence. + </p> + <p> + At length he turned to Vibart and said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “I made straight for the middle of the road, didn’t I? If there <i>had</i> + been a runaway I should have stopped it?” + </p> + <p> + Vibart looked at him in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You would have tried to, undoubtedly, unless I’d had time to drag you + away.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle straightened his narrow shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “There was no hesitation, at all events? I—I showed no signs of—avoiding + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I should say not, sir; it was I who funked it for you.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle was silent: his head had dropped forward and he looked like + an old man. + </p> + <p> + “It was just my cursed luck again!” he exclaimed suddenly in a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + For a moment Vibart thought that he was wandering; but he raised his head + and went on speaking in more natural tones. + </p> + <p> + “I daresay I appeared ridiculous enough to you just now, eh? Perhaps you + saw all along that the horses weren’t running? Your eyes are younger than + mine; and then you’re not always looking out for runaways, as I am. Do you + know that in thirty years I’ve never seen a runaway?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re fortunate,” said Vibart, still bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “Fortunate? Good God, man, I’ve <i>prayed</i> to see one: not a runaway + especially, but any bad accident; anything that endangered people’s lives. + There are accidents happening all the time all over the world; why + shouldn’t I ever come across one? It’s not for want of trying! At one time + I used to haunt the theatres in the hope of a fire: fires in theatres are + so apt to be fatal. Well, will you believe it? I was in the Brooklyn + theatre the night before it burned down; I left the old Madison Square + Garden half an hour before the walls fell in. And it’s the same way with + street accidents—I always miss them; I’m always just too late. Last + year there was a boy knocked down by a cable-car at our corner; I got to + my gate just as they were carrying him off on a stretcher. And so it goes. + If anybody else had been walking along this road, those horses would have + been running away. And there was a girl in the buggy, too—a mere + child!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle’s head sank again. + </p> + <p> + “You’re wondering what this means,” he began after another pause. “I was a + little confused for a moment—must have seemed incoherent.” His voice + cleared and he made an effort to straighten himself. “Well, I was a damned + coward once and I’ve been trying to live it down ever since.” + </p> + <p> + Vibart looked at him incredulously and Mr. Carstyle caught the look with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Do I look like a Hercules?” He held up his loose-skinned hand + and shrunken wrist. “Not built for the part, certainly; but that doesn’t + count, of course. Man’s unconquerable soul, and all the rest of it ... + well, I was a coward every inch of me, body and soul.” + </p> + <p> + He paused and glanced up and down the road. There was no one in sight. + </p> + <p> + “It happened when I was a young chap just out of college. I was travelling + round the world with another youngster of my own age and an older man—Charles + Meriton—who has since made a name for himself. You may have heard of + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Meriton, the archaeologist? The man who discovered those ruined African + cities the other day?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the man. He was a college tutor then, and my father, who had known + him since he was a boy, and who had a very high opinion of him, had asked + him to make the tour with us. We both—my friend Collis and I—had + an immense admiration for Meriton. He was just the fellow to excite a + boy’s enthusiasm: cool, quick, imperturbable—the kind of man whose + hand is always on the hilt of action. His explorations had led him into + all sorts of tight places, and he’d shown an extraordinary combination of + calculating patience and reckless courage. He never talked about his + doings; we picked them up from various people on our journey. He’d been + everywhere, he knew everybody, and everybody had something stirring to + tell about him. I daresay this account of the man sounds exaggerated; + perhaps it is; I’ve never seen him since; but at that time he seemed to me + a tremendous fellow—a kind of scientific Ajax. He was a capital + travelling-companion, at any rate: good-tempered, cheerful, easily amused, + with none of the been-there-before superiority so irritating to + youngsters. He made us feel as though it were all as new to him as to us: + he never chilled our enthusiasms or took the bloom off our surprises. + There was nobody else whose good opinion I cared as much about: he was the + biggest thing in sight. + </p> + <p> + “On the way home Collis broke down with diphtheria. We were in the + Mediterranean, cruising about the Sporades in a felucca. He was taken ill + at Chios. The attack came on suddenly and we were afraid to run the risk + of taking him back to Athens in the felucca. We established ourselves in + the inn at Chios and there the poor fellow lay for weeks. Luckily there + was a fairly good doctor on the island and we sent to Athens for a sister + to help with the nursing. Poor Collis was desperately bad: the diphtheria + was followed by partial paralysis. The doctor assured us that the danger + was past; he would gradually regain the use of his limbs; but his recovery + would be slow. The sister encouraged us too—she had seen such cases + before; and he certainly did improve a shade each day. Meriton and I had + taken turns with the sister in nursing him, but after the paralysis had + set in there wasn’t much to do, and there was nothing to prevent Meriton’s + leaving us for a day or two. He had received word from some place on the + coast of Asia Minor that a remarkable tomb had been discovered somewhere + in the interior; he had not been willing to take us there, as the journey + was not a particularly safe one; but now that we were tied up at Chios + there seemed no reason why he shouldn’t go and take a look at the place. + The expedition would not take more than three days; Collis was + convalescent; the doctor and nurse assured us that there was no cause for + uneasiness; and so Meriton started off one evening at sunset. I walked + down to the quay with him and saw him rowed off to the felucca. I would + have given a good deal to be going with him; the prospect of danger + allured me. + </p> + <p> + “‘You’ll see that Collis is never left alone, won’t you?’ he shouted back + to me as the boat pulled out into the harbor; I remembered I rather + resented the suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “I walked back to the inn and went to bed: the nurse sat up with Collis at + night. The next morning I relieved her at the usual hour. It was a sultry + day with a queer coppery-looking sky; the air was stifling. In the middle + of the day the nurse came to take my place while I dined; when I went back + to Collis’s room she said she would go out for a breath of air. + </p> + <p> + “I sat down by Collis’s bed and began to fan him with the fan the sister + had been using. The heat made him uneasy and I turned him over in bed, for + he was still helpless: the whole of his right side was numb. Presently he + fell asleep and I went to the window and sat looking down on the hot + deserted square, with a bunch of donkeys and their drivers asleep in the + shade of the convent-wall across the way. I remember noticing the blue + beads about the donkeys’ necks.... Were you ever in an earthquake? No? I’d + never been in one either. It’s an indescribable sensation ... there’s a + Day of Judgment feeling in the air. It began with the donkeys waking up + and trembling; I noticed that and thought it queer. Then the drivers + jumped up—I saw the terror in their faces. Then a roar.... I + remember noticing a big black crack in the convent-wall opposite—a + zig-zag crack, like a flash of lightning in a wood-cut.... I thought of + that, too, at the time; then all the bells in the place began to ring—it + made a fearful discord.... I saw people rushing across the square ... the + air was full of crashing noises. The floor went down under me in a + sickening way and then jumped back and pitched me to the ceiling ... but + where <i>was</i> the ceiling? And the door? I said to myself: <i>We’re two + stories up—the stairs are just wide enough for one</i>.... I gave + one glance at Collis: he was lying in bed, wide awake, looking straight at + me. I ran. Something struck me on the head as I bolted downstairs—I + kept on running. I suppose the knock I got dazed me, for I don’t remember + much of anything till I found myself in a vineyard a mile from the town. I + was roused by the warm blood running down my nose and heard myself + explaining to Meriton exactly how it had happened.... + </p> + <p> + “When I crawled back to the town they told me that all the houses near the + inn were in ruins and that a dozen people had been killed. Collis was + among them, of course. The ceiling had come down on him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle wiped his forehead. Vibart sat looking away from him. + </p> + <p> + “Two days later Meriton came back. I began to tell him the story, but he + interrupted me. + </p> + <p> + “‘There was no one with him at the time, then? You’d left him alone?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘No, he wasn’t alone.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Who was with him? You said the sister was out.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I was with him.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘<i>You were with him?</i>’ + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget Meriton’s look. I believe I had meant to explain, to + accuse myself, to shout out my agony of soul; but I saw the uselessness of + it. A door had been shut between us. Neither of us spoke another word. He + was very kind to me on the way home; he looked after me in a motherly way + that was a good deal harder to stand than his open contempt. I saw the man + was honestly trying to pity me; but it was no good—he simply + couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle rose slowly, with a certain stiffness. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we turn toward home? Perhaps I’m keeping you.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on a few steps in silence; then he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “That business altered my whole life. Of course I oughtn’t to have allowed + it to—that was another form of cowardice. But I saw myself only with + Meriton’s eyes—it is one of the worst miseries of youth that one is + always trying to be somebody else. I had meant to be a Meriton—I saw + I’d better go home and study law.... + </p> + <p> + “It’s a childish fancy, a survival of the primitive savage, if you like; + but from that hour to this I’ve hankered day and night for a chance to + retrieve myself, to set myself right with the man I meant to be. I want to + prove to that man that it was all an accident—an unaccountable + deviation from my normal instincts; that having once been a coward doesn’t + mean that a man’s cowardly... and I can’t, I can’t!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Carstyle’s tone had passed insensibly from agitation to irony. He had + got back to his usual objective stand-point. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I’m a perfect olive-branch,” he concluded, with his dry indulgent + laugh; “the very babies stop crying at my approach—I carry a sort of + millennium about with me—I’d make my fortune as an agent of the + Peace Society. I shall go to the grave leaving that other man + unconvinced!” + </p> + <p> + Vibart walked back with him to Millbrook. On her doorstep they met Mrs. + Carstyle, flushed and feathered, with a card-case and dusty boots. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ask you in,” she said plaintively, to Vibart, “because I can’t + answer for the food this evening. My maid-of-all-work tells me that she’s + going to a ball—which is more than I’ve done in years! And besides, + it would be cruel to ask you to spend such a hot evening in our stuffy + little house—the air is so much cooler at Mrs. Vance’s. Remember me + to Mrs. Vance, please, and tell her how sorry I am that I can no longer + include her in my round of visits. When I had my carriage I saw the people + I liked, but now that I have to walk, my social opportunities are more + limited. I was not obliged to do my visiting on foot when I was younger, + and my doctor tells me that to persons accustomed to a carriage no + exercise is more injurious than walking.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at her husband with a smile of unforgiving sweetness. + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately,” she concluded, “it agrees with Mr. Carstyle.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TWILIGHT OF THE GOD + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + <i>A Newport drawing-room. Tapestries, flowers, bric-a-brac. Through the + windows, a geranium-edged lawn, the cliffs and the sea</i>. Isabel Warland + <i>sits reading</i>. Lucius Warland <i>enters in flannels and a + yachting-cap</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Back already? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. The wind dropped—it turned into a drifting race. + Langham took me off the yacht on his launch. What time is it? Two o’clock? + Where’s Mrs. Raynor? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. On her way to New York. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. To New York? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Precisely. The boat must be just leaving; she started an + hour ago and took Laura with her. In fact I’m alone in the house—that + is, until this evening. Some people are coming then. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. But what in the world— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Her aunt, Mrs. Griscom, has had a fit. She has them + constantly. They’re not serious—at least they wouldn’t be, if Mrs. + Griscom were not so rich—and childless. Naturally, under the + circumstances, Marian feels a peculiar sympathy for her; her position is + such a sad one; there’s positively no one to care whether she lives or + dies—except her heirs. Of course they all rush to Newburgh whenever + she has a fit. It’s hard on Marian, for she lives the farthest away; but + she has come to an understanding with the housekeeper, who always + telegraphs her first, so that she gets a start of several hours. She will + be at Newburgh to-night at ten, and she has calculated that the others + can’t possibly arrive before midnight. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. You have a delightful way of putting things. I suppose + you’d talk of me like that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Oh, no. It’s too humiliating to doubt one’s husband’s + disinterestedness. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. I wish I had a rich aunt who had fits. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. If I were wishing I should choose heart-disease. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. There’s no doing anything without money or influence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (picking up her book)</i>. Have you heard from Washington? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Yes. That’s what I was going to speak of when I asked for + Mrs. Raynor. I wanted to bid her good-bye. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You’re going? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. By the five train. Fagott has just wired me that the + Ambassador will be in Washington on Monday. He hasn’t named his + secretaries yet, but there isn’t much hope for me. He has a nephew— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. They always have. Like the Popes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Well, I’m going all the same. You’ll explain to Mrs. + Raynor if she gets back before I do? Are there to be people at dinner? I + don’t suppose it matters. You can always pick up an extra man on a + Saturday. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. By the way, that reminds me that Marian left me a list of + the people who are arriving this afternoon. My novel is so absorbing that + I forgot to look at it. Where can it be? Ah, here—Let me see: the + Jack Merringtons, Adelaide Clinton, Ned Lender—all from New York, by + seven P.M. train. Lewis Darley to-night, by Fall River boat. John + Oberville, from Boston at five P.M. Why, I didn’t know— + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (excitedly)</i>. John Oberville? John Oberville? Here? To-day + at five o’clock? Let me see—let me look at the list. Are you sure + you’re not mistaken? Why, she never said a word! Why the deuce didn’t you + tell me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I didn’t know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Oberville—Oberville—! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Why, what difference does it make? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. What difference? What difference? Don’t look at me as if + you didn’t understand English! Why, if Oberville’s coming—(a pause) + Look here, Isabel, didn’t you know him very well at one time? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Very well—yes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. I thought so—of course—I remember now; I heard + all about it before I met you. Let me see—didn’t you and your mother + spend a winter in Washington when he was Under-secretary of State? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. That was before the deluge. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. I remember—it all comes back to me. I used to hear + it said that he admired you tremendously; there was a report that you were + engaged. Don’t you remember? Why, it was in all the papers. By Jove, + Isabel, what a match that would have been! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You <i>are</i> disinterested! + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Well, I can’t help thinking— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. That I paid you a handsome compliment? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (preoccupied)</i>. Eh?—Ah, yes—exactly. What was I + saying? Oh—about the report of your engagement. <i>(Playfully.)</i> + He was awfully gone on you, wasn’t he? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. It’s not for me to diminish your triumph. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. By Jove, I can’t think why Mrs. Raynor didn’t tell me he + was coming. A man like that—one doesn’t take him for granted, like + the piano-tuner! I wonder I didn’t see it in the papers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Is he grown such a great man? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Oberville? Great? John Oberville? I’ll tell you what he is—the + power behind the throne, the black Pope, the King-maker and all the rest + of it. Don’t you read the papers? Of course I’ll never get on if you won’t + interest yourself in politics. And to think you might have married that + man! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. And got you your secretaryship! + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Oberville has them all in the hollow of his hand. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Well, you’ll see him at five o’clock. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. I don’t suppose he’s ever heard of <i>me</i>, worse luck! + (<i>A silence</i>.) Isabel, look here. I never ask questions, do I? But it + was so long ago—and Oberville almost belongs to history—he + will one of these days at any rate. Just tell me—did he want to + marry you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Since you answer for his immortality—(<i>after a + pause</i>) I was very much in love with him. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Then of course he did. (<i>Another pause</i>.) But what in + the world— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (musing)</i>. As you say, it was so long ago; I don’t see why I + shouldn’t tell you. There was a married woman who had—what is the + correct expression?—made sacrifices for him. There was only one + sacrifice she objected to making—and he didn’t consider himself + free. It sounds rather <i>rococo</i>, doesn’t it? It was odd that she died + the year after we were married. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Whew! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (following her own thoughts)</i>. I’ve never seen him since; it + must be ten years ago. I’m certainly thirty-two, and I was just twenty-two + then. It’s curious to talk of it. I had put it away so carefully. How it + smells of camphor! And what an old-fashioned cut it has! <i>(Rising.)</i> + Where’s the list, Lucius? You wanted to know if there were to be people at + dinner tonight— + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Here it is—but never mind. Isabel—(<i>silence</i>) + Isabel— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Well? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. It’s odd he never married. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. The comparison is to my disadvantage. But then I met you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic. I wonder how he’ll + feel about seeing you. Oh, I don’t mean any sentimental rot, of course... + but you’re an uncommonly agreeable woman. I daresay he’ll be pleased to + see you again; you’re fifty times more attractive than when I married you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I wish your other investments had appreciated at the same + rate. Unfortunately my charms won’t pay the butcher. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Damn the butcher! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I happened to mention him because he’s just written again; + but I might as well have said the baker or the candlestick-maker. The + candlestick-maker—I wonder what he is, by the way? He must have more + faith in human nature than the others, for I haven’t heard from him yet. I + wonder if there is a Creditor’s Polite Letter-writer which they all + consult; their style is so exactly alike. I advise you to pass through New + York incognito on your way to Washington; their attentions might be + oppressive. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Confoundedly oppressive. What a dog’s life it is! My poor + Isabel— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Don’t pity me. I didn’t marry you for a home. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (after a pause</i>). What <i>did</i> you marry me for, if you + cared for Oberville? <i>(Another pause</i>.) Eh? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>, Don’t make me regret my confidence. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Oh, it was only a subterfuge to conceal the fact that I + have no distinct recollection of my reasons. The fact is, a girl’s motives + in marrying are like a passport—apt to get mislaid. One is so seldom + asked for either. But mine certainly couldn’t have been mercenary: I never + heard a mother praise you to her daughters. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. No, I never was much of a match. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You impugn my judgment. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. If I only had a head for business, now, I might have done + something by this time. But I’d sooner break stones in the road. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. It must be very hard to get an opening in that profession. + So many of my friends have aspired to it, and yet I never knew any one who + actually did it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. If I could only get the secretaryship. How that kind of + life would suit you! It’s as much for you that I want it— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. And almost as much for the butcher. Don’t belittle the + circle of your benevolence. (<i>She walks across the room</i>.) Three + o’clock already—and Marian asked me to give orders about the + carriages. Let me see—Mr. Oberville is the first arrival; if you’ll + ring I will send word to the stable. I suppose you’ll stay now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Stay? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Not go to Washington. I thought you spoke as if he could + help you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. He could settle the whole thing in five minutes. The + President can’t refuse him anything. But he doesn’t know me; he may have a + candidate of his own. It’s a pity you haven’t seen him for so long—and + yet I don’t know; perhaps it’s just as well. The others don’t arrive till + seven? It seems as if—How long is he going to be here? Till + to-morrow night, I suppose? I wonder what he’s come for. The Merringtons + will bore him to death, and Adelaide, of course, will be philandering with + Lender. I wonder (<i>a pause</i>) if Darley likes boating. (<i>Rings the + bell</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Boating? + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Oh, I was only thinking—Where are the matches? One + may smoke here, I suppose? <i>(He looks at his wife.)</i> If I were you + I’d put on that black gown of yours to-night—the one with the + spangles.—It’s only that Fred Langham asked me to go over to + Narragansett in his launch to-morrow morning, and I was thinking that I + might take Darley; I always liked Darley. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (to the footman who enters)</i>. Mrs. Raynor wishes the dog-cart + sent to the station at five o’clock to meet Mr. Oberville. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Very good, m’m. Shall I serve tea at the usual time, m’m? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Yes. That is, when Mr. Oberville arrives. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman (going out)</i>. Very good, m’m. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (to Isabel, who is moving toward the door)</i>. Where are you + going? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. To my room now—for a walk later. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Later? It’s past three already. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I’ve no engagement this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. Oh, I didn’t know. (<i>As she reaches the door</i>.) + You’ll be back, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I have no intention of eloping. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland</i>. For tea, I mean? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I never take tea. (<i>Warland shrugs his shoulders</i>.) + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + <i>The same drawing-room. </i>Isabel<i> enters from the lawn in hat and + gloves. The tea-table is set out, and the footman just lighting the lamp + under the kettle</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You may take the tea-things away. I never take tea. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Very good, m’m. (<i>He hesitates</i>.) I understood, m’m, + that Mr. Oberville was to have tea? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Mr. Oberville? But he was to arrive long ago! What time is + it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Only a quarter past five, m’m. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. A quarter past five? (<i>She goes up to the clock</i>.) + Surely you’re mistaken? I thought it was long after six. (<i>To herself</i>.) + I walked and walked—I must have walked too fast ... (<i>To the + Footman</i>.) I’m going out again. When Mr. Oberville arrives please give + him his tea without waiting for me. I shall not be back till dinner-time. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Very good, m’m. Here are some letters, m’m. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (glancing at them with a movement of disgust)</i>. You may send + them up to my room. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. I beg pardon, m’m, but one is a note from Mme. + Fanfreluche, and the man who brought it is waiting for an answer. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Didn’t you tell him I was out? + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Yes, m’m. But he said he had orders to wait till you came + in. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Ah—let me see. (<i>She opens the note</i>.) Ah, yes. + (<i>A pause</i>.) Please say that I am on my way now to Mme Fanfreluche’s + to give her the answer in person. You may tell the man that I have already + started. Do you understand? Already started. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Yes, m’m. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. And—wait. (<i>With an effort</i>.) You may tell me + when the man has started. I shall wait here till then. Be sure you let me + know. + </p> + <p> + <i>Footman</i>. Yes, m’m. (<i>He goes out</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (sinking into a chair and hiding her face)</i>. Ah! (<i>After a + moment she rises, taking up her gloves and sunshade, and walks toward the + window which opens on the lawn</i>.) I’m so tired. (<i>She hesitates and + turns back into the room</i>.) Where can I go to? (<i>She sits down again + by the tea-table, and bends over the kettle. The clock strikes half-past + five</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (picking up her sunshade, walks back to the window)</i>. If I <i>must</i> + meet one of them... + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (speaking in the hall)</i>. Thanks. I’ll take tea first. (<i>He + enters the room, and pauses doubtfully on seeing Isabel</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (stepping towards him with a smile)</i>. It’s not that I’ve + changed, of course, but only that I happened to have my back to the light. + Isn’t that what you are going to say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Mrs. Warland! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. So you really <i>have</i> become a great man! They always + remember people’s names. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Were you afraid I was going to call you Isabel? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Bravo! <i>Crescendo!</i> + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. But you have changed, all the same. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You must indeed have reached a dizzy eminence, since you + can indulge yourself by speaking the truth! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. It’s your voice. I knew it at once, and yet it’s + different. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I hope it can still convey the pleasure I feel in seeing an + old friend. (<i>She holds out her hand. He takes it</i>.) You know, I + suppose, that Mrs. Raynor is not here to receive you? She was called away + this morning very suddenly by her aunt’s illness. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Yes. She left a note for me. (<i>Absently</i>.) I’m + sorry to hear of Mrs. Griscom’s illness. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Oh, Mrs. Griscom’s illnesses are less alarming than her + recoveries. But I am forgetting to offer you any tea. (<i>She hands him a + cup</i>.) I remember you liked it very strong. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. What else do you remember? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. A number of equally useless things. My mind is a store-room + of obsolete information. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Why obsolete, since I am providing you with a use for + it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. At any rate, it’s open to question whether it was worth + storing for that length of time. Especially as there must have been others + more fitted—by opportunity—to undertake the duty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. The duty? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Of remembering how you like your tea. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (with a change of tone)</i>. Since you call it a duty—I + may remind you that it’s one I have never asked any one else to perform. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. As a duty! But as a pleasure? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Do you really want to know? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Oh, I don’t require and charge you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. You dislike as much as ever having the <i>i</i>’s + dotted? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. With a handwriting I know as well as yours! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (recovering his lightness of manner)</i>. Accomplished woman! + (<i>He examines her approvingly</i>.) I’d no idea that you were here. I + never was more surprised. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I hope you like being surprised. To my mind it’s an + overrated pleasure. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Is it? I’m sorry to hear that. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Why? Have you a surprise to dispose of? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I’m not sure that I haven’t. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Don’t part with it too hastily. It may improve by being + kept. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (tentatively)</i>. Does that mean that you don’t want it? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Heaven forbid! I want everything I can get. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. And you get everything you want. At least you used to. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Let us talk of your surprise. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. It’s to be yours, you know. (<i>A pause. He speaks + gravely</i>.) I find that I’ve never got over having lost you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (also gravely)</i>. And is that a surprise—to you too? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Honestly—yes. I thought I’d crammed my life full. + I didn’t know there was a cranny left anywhere. At first, you know, I + stuffed in everything I could lay my hands on—there was such a big + void to fill. And after all I haven’t filled it. I felt that the moment I + saw you. (<i>A pause</i>.) I’m talking stupidly. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. It would be odious if you were eloquent. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. What do you mean? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. That’s a question you never used to ask me. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Be merciful. Remember how little practise I’ve had + lately. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. In what? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Never mind! (<i>He rises and walks away; then comes back + and stands in front of her</i>.) What a fool I was to give you up! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Oh, don’t say that! I’ve lived on it! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. On my letting you go? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. On your letting everything go—but the right. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Oh, hang the right! What is truth? We had the right to + be happy! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (with rising emotion)</i>. I used to think so sometimes. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Did you? Triple fool that I was! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. But you showed me— + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Why, good God, we belonged to each other—and I let + you go! It’s fabulous. I’ve fought for things since that weren’t worth a + crooked sixpence; fought as well as other men. And you—you—I + lost you because I couldn’t face a scene! Hang it, suppose there’d been a + dozen scenes—I might have survived them. Men have been known to. + They’re not necessarily fatal. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. A scene? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. It’s a form of fear that women don’t understand. How you + must have despised me! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You were—afraid—of a scene? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I was a damned coward, Isabel. That’s about the size of + it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Ah—I had thought it so much larger! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. What did you say? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I said that you have forgotten to drink your tea. It must + be quite cold. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Ah— + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Let me give you another cup. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (collecting himself)</i>. No—no. This is perfect. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You haven’t tasted it. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (falling into her mood) </i>. You always made it to + perfection. Only you never gave me enough sugar. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I know better now. (<i>She puts another lump in his cup</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (drinks his tea, and then says, with an air of reproach)</i>. + Isn’t all this chaff rather a waste of time between two old friends who + haven’t met for so many years? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (lightly)</i>. Oh, it’s only a <i>hors d’oeuvre</i>—the + tuning of the instruments. I’m out of practise too. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Let us come to the grand air, then. (<i>Sits down near + her</i>.) Tell me about yourself. What are you doing? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. At this moment? You’ll never guess. I’m trying to remember + you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. To remember me? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Until you came into the room just now my recollection of + you was so vivid; you were a living whole in my thoughts. Now I am engaged + in gathering up the fragments—in laboriously reconstructing you.... + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I have changed so much, then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. No, I don’t believe that you’ve changed. It’s only that I + see you differently. Don’t you know how hard it is to convince elderly + people that the type of the evening paper is no smaller than when they + were young? + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I’ve shrunk then? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. You couldn’t have grown bigger. Oh, I’m serious now; you + needn’t prepare a smile. For years you were the tallest object on my + horizon. I used to climb to the thought of you, as people who live in a + flat country mount the church steeple for a view. It’s wonderful how much + I used to see from there! And the air was so strong and pure! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. And now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Now I can fancy how delightful it must be to sit next to + you at dinner. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. You’re unmerciful. Have I said anything to offend you? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Of course not. How absurd! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I lost my head a little—I forgot how long it is + since we have met. When I saw you I forgot everything except what you had + once been to me. (<i>She is silent</i>.) I thought you too generous to + resent that. Perhaps I have overtaxed your generosity. (<i>A pause</i>.) + Shall I confess it? When I first saw you I thought for a moment that you + had remembered—as I had. You see I can only excuse myself by saying + something inexcusable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (deliberately)</i>. Not inexcusable. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Not—? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I had remembered. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Isabel! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. But now— + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Ah, give me a moment before you unsay it! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I don’t mean to unsay it. There’s no use in repealing an + obsolete law. That’s the pity of it! You say you lost me ten years ago. (<i>A + pause</i>.) I never lost you till now. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Now? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Only this morning you were my supreme court of justice; + there was no appeal from your verdict. Not an hour ago you decided a case + for me—against myself! And now—. And the worst of it is that + it’s not because you’ve changed. How do I know if you’ve changed? You + haven’t said a hundred words to me. You haven’t been an hour in the room. + And the years must have enriched you—I daresay you’ve doubled your + capital. You’ve been in the thick of life, and the metal you’re made of + brightens with use. Success on some men looks like a borrowed coat; it + sits on you as though it had been made to order. I see all this; I know + it; but I don’t <i>feel</i> it. I don’t feel anything... anywhere... I’m + numb. (<i>A pause</i>.) Don’t laugh, but I really don’t think I should + know now if you came into the room—unless I actually saw you. (<i>They + are both silent</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (at length)</i>. Then, to put the most merciful + interpretation upon your epigrams, your feeling for me was made out of + poorer stuff than mine for you. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Perhaps it has had harder wear. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Or been less cared for? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. If one has only one cloak one must wear it in all weathers. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Unless it is so beautiful and precious that one prefers + to go cold and keep it under lock and key. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. In the cedar-chest of indifference—the key of which + is usually lost. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Ah, Isabel, you’re too pat! How much I preferred your + hesitations. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. My hesitations? That reminds me how much your coming has + simplified things. I feel as if I’d had an auction sale of fallacies. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. You speak in enigmas, and I have a notion that your + riddles are the reverse of the sphinx’s—more dangerous to guess than + to give up. And yet I used to find your thoughts such good reading. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. One cares so little for the style in which one’s praises + are written. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. You’ve been praising me for the last ten minutes and I + find your style detestable. I would rather have you find fault with me + like a friend than approve me like a <i>dilettante</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. A <i>dilettante</i>! The very word I wanted! + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. I am proud to have enriched so full a vocabulary. But I + am still waiting for the word <i>I</i> want. (<i>He grows serious</i>.) + Isabel, look in your heart—give me the first word you find there. + You’ve no idea how much a beggar can buy with a penny! + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. It’s empty, my poor friend, it’s empty. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. Beggars never say that to each other. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. No; never, unless it’s true. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (after another silence)</i>. Why do you look at me so + curiously? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. I’m—what was it you said? Approving you as a <i>dilettante</i>. + Don’t be alarmed; you can bear examination; I don’t see a crack anywhere. + After all, it’s a satisfaction to find that one’s idol makes a handsome <i>bibelot</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville (with an attempt at lightness)</i>. I was right then—you’re + a collector? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (modestly)</i>. One must make a beginning. I think I shall begin + with you. (<i>She smiles at him</i>.) Positively, I must have you on my + mantel-shelf! (<i>She rises and looks at the clock</i>.) But it’s time to + dress for dinner. (<i>She holds out her hand to him and he kisses it. They + look at each other, and it is clear that he does not quite understand, but + is watching eagerly for his cue</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (coming in)</i>. Hullo, Isabel—you’re here after all? + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. And so is Mr. Oberville. (<i>She looks straight at Warland</i>.) + I stayed in on purpose to meet him. My husband—(<i>The two men bow</i>.) + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland (effusively)</i>. So glad to meet you. My wife talks of you so + often. She’s been looking forward tremendously to your visit. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville</i>. It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing + Mrs. Warland. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. But now we are going to make up for lost time. (<i>As he + goes to the door</i>.) I claim you to-morrow for the whole day. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oberville bows and goes out</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel</i>. Lucius... I think you’d better go to Washington, after all. + (<i>Musing</i>.) Narragansett might do for the others, though.... Couldn’t + you get Fred Langham to ask all the rest of the party to go over there + with him to-morrow morning? I shall have a headache and stay at home. (<i>He + looks at her doubtfully</i>.) Mr. Oberville is a bad sailor. + </p> + <p> + <i>Warland advances demonstratively</i>. + </p> + <p> + <i>Isabel (drawing back)</i>. It’s time to go and dress. I think you said + the black gown with spangles? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CUP OF COLD WATER + </h2> + <p> + It was three o’clock in the morning, and the cotillion was at its height, + when Woburn left the over-heated splendor of the Gildermere ballroom, and + after a delay caused by the determination of the drowsy footman to give + him a ready-made overcoat with an imitation astrachan collar in place of + his own unimpeachable Poole garment, found himself breasting the icy + solitude of the Fifth Avenue. He was still smiling, as he emerged from the + awning, at his insistence in claiming his own overcoat: it illustrated, + humorously enough, the invincible force of habit. As he faced the wind, + however, he discerned a providence in his persistency, for his coat was + fur-lined, and he had a cold voyage before him on the morrow. + </p> + <p> + It had rained hard during the earlier part of the night, and the carriages + waiting in triple line before the Gildermeres’ door were still domed by + shining umbrellas, while the electric lamps extending down the avenue + blinked Narcissus-like at their watery images in the hollows of the + sidewalk. A dry blast had come out of the north, with pledge of frost + before daylight, and to Woburn’s shivering fancy the pools in the pavement + seemed already stiffening into ice. He turned up his coat-collar and + stepped out rapidly, his hands deep in his coat-pockets. + </p> + <p> + As he walked he glanced curiously up at the ladder-like door-steps which + may well suggest to the future archaeologist that all the streets of New + York were once canals; at the spectral tracery of the trees about St. + Luke’s, the fretted mass of the Cathedral, and the mean vista of the long + side-streets. The knowledge that he was perhaps looking at it all for the + last time caused every detail to start out like a challenge to memory, and + lit the brown-stone house-fronts with the glamor of sword-barred Edens. + </p> + <p> + It was an odd impulse that had led him that night to the Gildermere ball; + but the same change in his condition which made him stare wonderingly at + the houses in the Fifth Avenue gave the thrill of an exploit to the tame + business of ball-going. Who would have imagined, Woburn mused, that such a + situation as his would possess the priceless quality of sharpening the + blunt edge of habit? + </p> + <p> + It was certainly curious to reflect, as he leaned against the doorway of + Mrs. Gildermere’s ball-room, enveloped in the warm atmosphere of the + accustomed, that twenty-four hours later the people brushing by him with + looks of friendly recognition would start at the thought of having seen + him and slur over the recollection of having taken his hand! + </p> + <p> + And the girl he had gone there to see: what would she think of him? He + knew well enough that her trenchant classifications of life admitted no + overlapping of good and evil, made no allowance for that incalculable + interplay of motives that justifies the subtlest casuistry of compassion. + Miss Talcott was too young to distinguish the intermediate tints of the + moral spectrum; and her judgments were further simplified by a peculiar + concreteness of mind. Her bringing-up had fostered this tendency and she + was surrounded by people who focussed life in the same way. To the girls + in Miss Talcott’s set, the attentions of a clever man who had to work for + his living had the zest of a forbidden pleasure; but to marry such a man + would be as unpardonable as to have one’s carriage seen at the door of a + cheap dress-maker. Poverty might make a man fascinating; but a settled + income was the best evidence of stability of character. If there were + anything in heredity, how could a nice girl trust a man whose parents had + been careless enough to leave him unprovided for? + </p> + <p> + Neither Miss Talcott nor any of her friends could be charged with + formulating these views; but they were implicit in the slope of every + white shoulder and in the ripple of every yard of imported tulle dappling + the foreground of Mrs. Gildermere’s ball-room. The advantages of line and + colour in veiling the crudities of a creed are obvious to emotional minds; + and besides, Woburn was conscious that it was to the cheerful materialism + of their parents that the young girls he admired owed that fine + distinction of outline in which their skilfully-rippled hair and + skilfully-hung draperies coöperated with the slimness and erectness that + came of participating in the most expensive sports, eating the most + expensive food and breathing the most expensive air. Since the process + which had produced them was so costly, how could they help being costly + themselves? Woburn was too logical to expect to give no more for a piece + of old Sèvres than for a bit of kitchen crockery; he had no faith in + wonderful bargains, and believed that one got in life just what one was + willing to pay for. He had no mind to dispute the taste of those who + preferred the rustic simplicity of the earthen crock; but his own fancy + inclined to the piece of <i>pâte tendre</i> which must be kept in a glass + case and handled as delicately as a flower. + </p> + <p> + It was not merely by the external grace of these drawing-room ornaments + that Woburn’s sensibilities were charmed. His imagination was touched by + the curious exoticism of view resulting from such conditions; He had + always enjoyed listening to Miss Talcott even more than looking at her. + Her ideas had the brilliant bloom and audacious irrelevance of those + tropical orchids which strike root in air. Miss Talcott’s opinions had no + connection with the actual; her very materialism had the grace of + artificiality. Woburn had been enchanted once by seeing her helpless + before a smoking lamp: she had been obliged to ring for a servant because + she did not know how to put it out. + </p> + <p> + Her supreme charm was the simplicity that comes of taking it for granted + that people are born with carriages and country-places: it never occurred + to her that such congenital attributes could be matter for + self-consciousness, and she had none of the <i>nouveau riche</i> prudery + which classes poverty with the nude in art and is not sure how to behave + in the presence of either. + </p> + <p> + The conditions of Woburn’s own life had made him peculiarly susceptible to + those forms of elegance which are the flower of ease. His father had lost + a comfortable property through sheer inability to go over his agent’s + accounts; and this disaster, coming at the outset of Woburn’s school-days, + had given a new bent to the family temperament. The father + characteristically died when the effort of living might have made it + possible to retrieve his fortunes; and Woburn’s mother and sister, + embittered by this final evasion, settled down to a vindictive war with + circumstances. They were the kind of women who think that it lightens the + burden of life to throw over the amenities, as a reduced housekeeper puts + away her knick-knacks to make the dusting easier. They fought mean + conditions meanly; but Woburn, in his resentment of their attitude, did + not allow for the suffering which had brought it about: his own tendency + was to overcome difficulties by conciliation rather than by conflict. Such + surroundings threw into vivid relief the charming figure of Miss Talcott. + Woburn instinctively associated poverty with bad food, ugly furniture, + complaints and recriminations: it was natural that he should be drawn + toward the luminous atmosphere where life was a series of peaceful and + good-humored acts, unimpeded by petty obstacles. To spend one’s time in + such society gave one the illusion of unlimited credit; and also, + unhappily, created the need for it. + </p> + <p> + It was here in fact that Woburn’s difficulties began. To marry Miss + Talcott it was necessary to be a rich man: even to dine out in her set + involved certain minor extravagances. Woburn had determined to marry her + sooner or later; and in the meanwhile to be with her as much as possible. + </p> + <p> + As he stood leaning in the doorway of the Gildermere ball-room, watching + her pass him in the waltz, he tried to remember how it had begun. First + there had been the tailor’s bill; the fur-lined overcoat with cuffs and + collar of Alaska sable had alone cost more than he had spent on his + clothes for two or three years previously. Then there were + theatre-tickets; cab-fares; florist’s bills; tips to servants at the + country-houses where he went because he knew that she was invited; the <i>Omar + Khayyám</i> bound by Sullivan that he sent her at Christmas; the + contributions to her pet charities; the reckless purchases at fairs where + she had a stall. His whole way of life had imperceptibly changed and his + year’s salary was gone before the second quarter was due. + </p> + <p> + He had invested the few thousand dollars which had been his portion of his + father’s shrunken estate: when his debts began to pile up, he took a flyer + in stocks and after a few months of varying luck his little patrimony + disappeared. Meanwhile his courtship was proceeding at an inverse ratio to + his financial ventures. Miss Talcott was growing tender and he began to + feel that the game was in his hands. The nearness of the goal exasperated + him. She was not the girl to wait and he knew that it must be now or + never. A friend lent him five thousand dollars on his personal note and he + bought railway stocks on margin. They went up and he held them for a + higher rise: they fluctuated, dragged, dropped below the level at which he + had bought, and slowly continued their uninterrupted descent. His broker + called for more margin; he could not respond and was sold out. + </p> + <p> + What followed came about quite naturally. For several years he had been + cashier in a well-known banking-house. When the note he had given his + friend became due it was obviously necessary to pay it and he used the + firm’s money for the purpose. To repay the money thus taken, he increased + his debt to his employers and bought more stocks; and on these operations + he made a profit of ten thousand dollars. Miss Talcott rode in the Park, + and he bought a smart hack for seven hundred, paid off his tradesmen, and + went on speculating with the remainder of his profits. He made a little + more, but failed to take advantage of the market and lost all that he had + staked, including the amount taken from the firm. He increased his + over-draft by another ten thousand and lost that; he over-drew a farther + sum and lost again. Suddenly he woke to the fact that he owed his + employers fifty thousand dollars and that the partners were to make their + semi-annual inspection in two days. He realized then that within + forty-eight hours what he had called borrowing would become theft. + </p> + <p> + There was no time to be lost: he must clear out and start life over again + somewhere else. The day that he reached this decision he was to have met + Miss Talcott at dinner. He went to the dinner, but she did not appear: she + had a headache, his hostess explained. Well, he was not to have a last + look at her, after all; better so, perhaps. He took leave early and on his + way home stopped at a florist’s and sent her a bunch of violets. The next + morning he got a little note from her: the violets had done her head so + much good—she would tell him all about it that evening at the + Gildermere ball. Woburn laughed and tossed the note into the fire. That + evening he would be on board ship: the examination of the books was to + take place the following morning at ten. + </p> + <p> + Woburn went down to the bank as usual; he did not want to do anything that + might excite suspicion as to his plans, and from one or two questions + which one of the partners had lately put to him he divined that he was + being observed. At the bank the day passed uneventfully. He discharged his + business with his accustomed care and went uptown at the usual hour. + </p> + <p> + In the first flush of his successful speculations he had set up bachelor + lodgings, moved by the temptation to get away from the dismal atmosphere + of home, from his mother’s struggles with the cook and his sister’s + curiosity about his letters. He had been influenced also by the wish for + surroundings more adapted to his tastes. He wanted to be able to give + little teas, to which Miss Talcott might come with a married friend. She + came once or twice and pronounced it all delightful: she thought it <i>so</i> + nice to have only a few Whistler etchings on the walls and the simplest + crushed levant for all one’s books. + </p> + <p> + To these rooms Woburn returned on leaving the bank. His plans had taken + definite shape. He had engaged passage on a steamer sailing for Halifax + early the next morning; and there was nothing for him to do before going + on board but to pack his clothes and tear up a few letters. He threw his + clothes into a couple of portmanteaux, and when these had been called for + by an expressman he emptied his pockets and counted up his ready money. He + found that he possessed just fifty dollars and seventy-five cents; but his + passage to Halifax was paid, and once there he could pawn his watch and + rings. This calculation completed, he unlocked his writing-table drawer + and took out a handful of letters. They were notes from Miss Talcott. He + read them over and threw them into the fire. On his table stood her + photograph. He slipped it out of its frame and tossed it on top of the + blazing letters. Having performed this rite, he got into his dress-clothes + and went to a small French restaurant to dine. + </p> + <p> + He had meant to go on board the steamer immediately after dinner; but a + sudden vision of introspective hours in a silent cabin made him call for + the evening paper and run his eye over the list of theatres. It would be + as easy to go on board at midnight as now. + </p> + <p> + He selected a new vaudeville and listened to it with surprising freshness + of interest; but toward eleven o’clock he again began to dread the + approaching necessity of going down to the steamer. There was something + peculiarly unnerving in the idea of spending the rest of the night in a + stifling cabin jammed against the side of a wharf. + </p> + <p> + He left the theatre and strolled across to the Fifth Avenue. It was now + nearly midnight and a stream of carriages poured up town from the opera + and the theatres. As he stood on the corner watching the familiar + spectacle it occurred to him that many of the people driving by him in + smart broughams and C-spring landaus were on their way to the Gildermere + ball. He remembered Miss Talcott’s note of the morning and wondered if she + were in one of the passing carriages; she had spoken so confidently of + meeting him at the ball. What if he should go and take a last look at her? + There was really nothing to prevent it. He was not likely to run across + any member of the firm: in Miss Talcott’s set his social standing was good + for another ten hours at least. He smiled in anticipation of her surprise + at seeing him, and then reflected with a start that she would not be + surprised at all. + </p> + <p> + His meditations were cut short by a fall of sleety rain, and hailing a + hansom he gave the driver Mrs. Gildermere’s address. + </p> + <p> + As he drove up the avenue he looked about him like a traveller in a + strange city. The buildings which had been so unobtrusively familiar stood + out with sudden distinctness: he noticed a hundred details which had + escaped his observation. The people on the sidewalks looked like + strangers: he wondered where they were going and tried to picture the + lives they led; but his own relation to life had been so suddenly reversed + that he found it impossible to recover his mental perspective. + </p> + <p> + At one corner he saw a shabby man lurking in the shadow of the side + street; as the hansom passed, a policeman ordered him to move on. Farther + on, Woburn noticed a woman crouching on the door-step of a handsome house. + She had drawn a shawl over her head and was sunk in the apathy of despair + or drink. A well-dressed couple paused to look at her. The electric globe + at the corner lit up their faces, and Woburn saw the lady, who was young + and pretty, turn away with a little grimace, drawing her companion after + her. + </p> + <p> + The desire to see Miss Talcott had driven Woburn to the Gildermeres’; but + once in the ball-room he made no effort to find her. The people about him + seemed more like strangers than those he had passed in the street. He + stood in the doorway, studying the petty manoeuvres of the women and the + resigned amenities of their partners. Was it possible that these were his + friends? These mincing women, all paint and dye and whalebone, these + apathetic men who looked as much alike as the figures that children cut + out of a folded sheet of paper? Was it to live among such puppets that he + had sold his soul? What had any of these people done that was noble, + exceptional, distinguished? Who knew them by name even, except their + tradesmen and the society reporters? Who were they, that they should sit + in judgment on him? + </p> + <p> + The bald man with the globular stomach, who stood at Mrs. Gildermere’s + elbow surveying the dancers, was old Boylston, who had made his pile in + wrecking railroads; the smooth chap with glazed eyes, at whom a pretty + girl smiled up so confidingly, was Collerton, the political lawyer, who + had been mixed up to his own advantage in an ugly lobbying transaction; + near him stood Brice Lyndham, whose recent failure had ruined his friends + and associates, but had not visibly affected the welfare of his large and + expensive family. The slim fellow dancing with Miss Gildermere was Alec + Vance, who lived on a salary of five thousand a year, but whose wife was + such a good manager that they kept a brougham and victoria and always put + in their season at Newport and their spring trip to Europe. The little + ferret-faced youth in the corner was Regie Colby, who wrote the <i>Entre-Nous</i> + paragraphs in the <i>Social Searchlight</i>: the women were charming to + him and he got all the financial tips he wanted from their husbands and + fathers. + </p> + <p> + And the women? Well, the women knew all about the men, and flattered them + and married them and tried to catch them for their daughters. It was a + domino-party at which the guests were forbidden to unmask, though they all + saw through each other’s disguises. + </p> + <p> + And these were the people who, within twenty-four hours, would be agreeing + that they had always felt there was something wrong about Woburn! They + would be extremely sorry for him, of course, poor devil; but there are + certain standards, after all—what would society be without + standards? His new friends, his future associates, were the + suspicious-looking man whom the policeman had ordered to move on, and the + drunken woman asleep on the door-step. To these he was linked by the + freemasonry of failure. + </p> + <p> + Miss Talcott passed him on Collerton’s arm; she was giving him one of the + smiles of which Woburn had fancied himself sole owner. Collerton was a + sharp fellow; he must have made a lot in that last deal; probably she + would marry him. How much did she know about the transaction? She was a + shrewd girl and her father was in Wall Street. If Woburn’s luck had turned + the other way she might have married him instead; and if he had confessed + his sin to her one evening, as they drove home from the opera in their new + brougham, she would have said that really it was of no use to tell her, + for she never <i>could</i> understand about business, but that she did + entreat him in future to be nicer to Regie Colby. Even now, if he made a + big strike somewhere, and came back in ten years with a beard and a steam + yacht, they would all deny that anything had been proved against him, and + Mrs. Collerton might blush and remind him of their friendship. Well—why + not? Was not all morality based on a convention? What was the stanchest + code of ethics but a trunk with a series of false bottoms? Now and then + one had the illusion of getting down to absolute right or wrong, but it + was only a false bottom—a removable hypothesis—with another + false bottom underneath. There was no getting beyond the relative. + </p> + <p> + The cotillion had begun. Miss Talcott sat nearly opposite him: she was + dancing with young Boylston and giving him a Woburn-Collerton smile. So + young Boylston was in the syndicate too! + </p> + <p> + Presently Woburn was aware that she had forgotten young Boylston and was + glancing absently about the room. She was looking for some one, and meant + the some one to know it: he knew that <i>Lost-Chord</i> look in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + A new figure was being formed. The partners circled about the room and + Miss Talcott’s flying tulle drifted close to him as she passed. Then the + favors were distributed; white skirts wavered across the floor like + thistle-down on summer air; men rose from their seats and fresh couples + filled the shining <i>parquet</i>. + </p> + <p> + Miss Talcott, after taking from the basket a Legion of Honor in red + enamel, surveyed the room for a moment; then she made her way through the + dancers and held out the favor to Woburn. He fastened it in his coat, and + emerging from the crowd of men about the doorway, slipped his arm about + her. Their eyes met; hers were serious and a little sad. How fine and + slender she was! He noticed the little tendrils of hair about the pink + convolution of her ear. Her waist was firm and yet elastic; she breathed + calmly and regularly, as though dancing were her natural motion. She did + not look at him again and neither of them spoke. + </p> + <p> + When the music ceased they paused near her chair. Her partner was waiting + for her and Woburn left her with a bow. + </p> + <p> + He made his way down-stairs and out of the house. He was glad that he had + not spoken to Miss Talcott. There had been a healing power in their + silence. All bitterness had gone from him and he thought of her now quite + simply, as the girl he loved. + </p> + <p> + At Thirty-fifth Street he reflected that he had better jump into a car and + go down to his steamer. Again there rose before him the repulsive vision + of the dark cabin, with creaking noises overhead, and the cold wash of + water against the pier: he thought he would stop in a café and take a + drink. He turned into Broadway and entered a brightly-lit café; but when + he had taken his whisky and soda there seemed no reason for lingering. He + had never been the kind of man who could escape difficulties in that way. + Yet he was conscious that his will was weakening; that he did not mean to + go down to the steamer just yet. What did he mean to do? He began to feel + horribly tired and it occurred to him that a few hours’ sleep in a decent + bed would make a new man of him. Why not go on board the next morning at + daylight? + </p> + <p> + He could not go back to his rooms, for on leaving the house he had taken + the precaution of dropping his latch-key into his letter-box; but he was + in a neighborhood of discreet hotels and he wandered on till he came to + one which was known to offer a dispassionate hospitality to luggageless + travellers in dress-clothes. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + He pushed open the swinging door and found himself in a long corridor with + a tessellated floor, at the end of which, in a brightly-lit enclosure of + plate-glass and mahogany, the night-clerk dozed over a copy of the <i>Police + Gazette</i>. The air in the corridor was rich in reminiscences of + yesterday’s dinners, and a bronzed radiator poured a wave of dry heat into + Woburn’s face. + </p> + <p> + The night-clerk, roused by the swinging of the door, sat watching Woburn’s + approach with the unexpectant eye of one who has full confidence in his + capacity for digesting surprises. Not that there was anything surprising + in Woburn’s appearance; but the night-clerk’s callers were given to such + imaginative flights in explaining their luggageless arrival in the small + hours of the morning, that he fared habitually on fictions which would + have staggered a less experienced stomach. The night-clerk, whose + unwrinkled bloom showed that he throve on this high-seasoned diet, had a + fancy for classifying his applicants before they could frame their + explanations. + </p> + <p> + “This one’s been locked out,” he said to himself as he mustered Woburn. + </p> + <p> + Having exercised his powers of divination with his accustomed accuracy he + listened without stirring an eye-lid to Woburn’s statement; merely + replying, when the latter asked the price of a room, “Two-fifty.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said Woburn, pushing the money under the brass lattice, “I’ll + go up at once; and I want to be called at seven.” + </p> + <p> + To this the night-clerk proffered no reply, but stretching out his hand to + press an electric button, returned apathetically to the perusal of the <i>Police + Gazette</i>. His summons was answered by the appearance of a man in + shirt-sleeves, whose rumpled head indicated that he had recently risen + from some kind of makeshift repose; to him the night-clerk tossed a key, + with the brief comment, “Ninety-seven;” and the man, after a sleepy glance + at Woburn, turned on his heel and lounged toward the staircase at the back + of the corridor. + </p> + <p> + Woburn followed and they climbed three flights in silence. At each landing + Woburn glanced down, the long passage-way lit by a lowered gas-jet, with a + double line of boots before the doors, waiting, like yesterday’s deeds, to + carry their owners so many miles farther on the morrow’s destined road. On + the third landing the man paused, and after examining the number on the + key, turned to the left, and slouching past three or four doors, finally + unlocked one and preceded Woburn into a room lit only by the upward gleam + of the electric globes in the street below. + </p> + <p> + The man felt in his pockets; then he turned to Woburn. “Got a match?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + Woburn politely offered him one, and he applied it to the gas-fixture + which extended its jointed arm above an ash dressing-table with a blurred + mirror fixed between two standards. Having performed this office with an + air of detachment designed to make Woburn recognize it as an act of + supererogation, he turned without a word and vanished down the + passage-way. + </p> + <p> + Woburn, after an indifferent glance about the room, which seemed to afford + the amount of luxury generally obtainable for two dollars and a half in a + fashionable quarter of New York, locked the door and sat down at the + ink-stained writing-table in the window. Far below him lay the + pallidly-lit depths of the forsaken thoroughfare. Now and then he heard + the jingle of a horsecar and the ring of hoofs on the freezing pavement, + or saw the lonely figure of a policeman eclipsing the illumination of the + plate-glass windows on the opposite side of the street. He sat thus for a + long time, his elbows on the table, his chin between his hands, till at + length the contemplation of the abandoned sidewalks, above which the + electric globes kept Stylites-like vigil, became intolerable to him, and + he drew down the window-shade, and lit the gas-fixture beside the + dressing-table. Then he took a cigar from his case, and held it to the + flame. + </p> + <p> + The passage from the stinging freshness of the night to the stale + overheated atmosphere of the Haslemere Hotel had checked the + preternaturally rapid working of his mind, and he was now scarcely + conscious of thinking at all. His head was heavy, and he would have thrown + himself on the bed had he not feared to oversleep the hour fixed for his + departure. He thought it safest, instead, to seat himself once more by the + table, in the most uncomfortable chair that he could find, and smoke one + cigar after another till the first sign of dawn should give an excuse for + action. + </p> + <p> + He had laid his watch on the table before him, and was gazing at the + hour-hand, and trying to convince himself by so doing that he was still + wide awake, when a noise in the adjoining room suddenly straightened him + in his chair and banished all fear of sleep. + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking the nature of the noise; it was that of a woman’s + sobs. The sobs were not loud, but the sound reached him distinctly through + the frail door between the two rooms; it expressed an utter abandonment to + grief; not the cloud-burst of some passing emotion, but the slow down-pour + of a whole heaven of sorrow. + </p> + <p> + Woburn sat listening. There was nothing else to be done; and at least his + listening was a mute tribute to the trouble he was powerless to relieve. + It roused, too, the drugged pulses of his own grief: he was touched by the + chance propinquity of two alien sorrows in a great city throbbing with + multifarious passions. It would have been more in keeping with the irony + of life had he found himself next to a mother singing her child to sleep: + there seemed a mute commiseration in the hand that had led him to such + neighborhood. + </p> + <p> + Gradually the sobs subsided, with pauses betokening an effort at + self-control. At last they died off softly, like the intermittent drops + that end a day of rain. + </p> + <p> + “Poor soul,” Woburn mused, “she’s got the better of it for the time. I + wonder what it’s all about?” + </p> + <p> + At the same moment he heard another sound that made him jump to his feet. + It was a very low sound, but in that nocturnal silence which gives + distinctness to the faintest noises, Woburn knew at once that he had heard + the click of a pistol. + </p> + <p> + “What is she up to now?” he asked himself, with his eye on the door + between the two rooms; and the brightly-lit keyhole seemed to reply with a + glance of intelligence. He turned out the gas and crept to the door, + pressing his eye to the illuminated circle. + </p> + <p> + After a moment or two of adjustment, during which he seemed to himself to + be breathing like a steam-engine, he discerned a room like his own, with + the same dressing-table flanked by gas-fixtures, and the same table in the + window. This table was directly in his line of vision; and beside it stood + a woman with a small revolver in her hands. The lights being behind her, + Woburn could only infer her youth from her slender silhouette and the + nimbus of fair hair defining her head. Her dress seemed dark and simple, + and on a chair under one of the gas-jets lay a jacket edged with cheap fur + and a small travelling-bag. He could not see the other end of the room, + but something in her manner told him that she was alone. At length she put + the revolver down and took up a letter that lay on the table. She drew the + letter from its envelope and read it over two or three times; then she put + it back, sealing the envelope, and placing it conspicuously against the + mirror of the dressing-table. + </p> + <p> + There was so grave a significance in this dumb-show that Woburn felt sure + that her next act would be to return to the table and take up the + revolver; but he had not reckoned on the vanity of woman. After putting + the letter in place she still lingered at the mirror, standing a little + sideways, so that he could now see her face, which was distinctly pretty, + but of a small and unelastic mould, inadequate to the expression of the + larger emotions. For some moments she continued to study herself with the + expression of a child looking at a playmate who has been scolded; then she + turned to the table and lifted the revolver to her forehead. + </p> + <p> + A sudden crash made her arm drop, and sent her darting backward to the + opposite side of the room. Woburn had broken down the door, and stood torn + and breathless in the breach. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she gasped, pressing closer to the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be frightened,” he said; “I saw what you were going to do and I had + to stop you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him for a moment in silence, and he saw the terrified + flutter of her breast; then she said, “No one can stop me for long. And + besides, what right have you—” + </p> + <p> + “Every one has the right to prevent a crime,” he returned, the sound of + the last word sending the blood to his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I deny it,” she said passionately. “Every one who has tried to live and + failed has the right to die.” + </p> + <p> + “Failed in what?” + </p> + <p> + “In everything!” she replied. They stood looking at each other in silence. + </p> + <p> + At length he advanced a few steps. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve no right to say you’ve failed,” he said, “while you have breath to + try again.” He drew the revolver from her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Try again—try again? I tell you I’ve tried seventy times seven!” + </p> + <p> + “What have you tried?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with a certain dignity. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” she said, “that you’ve any right to question me—or + to be in this room at all—” and suddenly she burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + The discrepancy between her words and action struck the chord which, in a + man’s heart, always responds to the touch of feminine unreason. She + dropped into the nearest chair, hiding her face in her hands, while Woburn + watched the course of her weeping. + </p> + <p> + At last she lifted her head, looking up between drenched lashes. + </p> + <p> + “Please go away,” she said in childish entreaty. + </p> + <p> + “How can I?” he returned. “It’s impossible that I should leave you in this + state. Trust me—let me help you. Tell me what has gone wrong, and + let’s see if there’s no other way out of it.” + </p> + <p> + Woburn had a voice full of sensitive inflections, and it was now trembling + with profoundest pity. Its note seemed to reassure the girl, for she said, + with a beginning of confidence in her own tones, “But I don’t even know + who you are.” + </p> + <p> + Woburn was silent: the words startled him. He moved nearer to her and went + on in the same quieting tone. + </p> + <p> + “I am a man who has suffered enough to want to help others. I don’t want + to know any more about you than will enable me to do what I can for you. + I’ve probably seen more of life than you have, and if you’re willing to + tell me your troubles perhaps together we may find a way out of them.” + </p> + <p> + She dried her eyes and glanced at the revolver. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the only way out,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know? Are you sure you’ve tried every other?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly sure, I’ve written and written, and humbled myself like a slave + before him, and she won’t even let him answer my letters. Oh, but you + don’t understand”—she broke off with a renewal of weeping. + </p> + <p> + “I begin to understand—you’re sorry for something you’ve done?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve never denied that—I’ve never denied that I was wicked.” + </p> + <p> + “And you want the forgiveness of some one you care about?” + </p> + <p> + “My husband,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve done something to displease your husband?” + </p> + <p> + “To displease him? I ran away with another man!” There was a dismal + exultation in her tone, as though she were paying Woburn off for having + underrated her offense. + </p> + <p> + She had certainly surprised him; at worst he had expected a quarrel over a + rival, with a possible complication of mother-in-law. He wondered how such + helpless little feet could have taken so bold a step; then he remembered + that there is no audacity like that of weakness. + </p> + <p> + He was wondering how to lead her to completer avowal when she added + forlornly, “You see there’s nothing else to do.” + </p> + <p> + Woburn took a turn in the room. It was certainly a narrower strait than he + had foreseen, and he hardly knew how to answer; but the first flow of + confession had eased her, and she went on without farther persuasion. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how I could ever have done it; I must have been downright + crazy. I didn’t care much for Joe when I married him—he wasn’t + exactly handsome, and girls think such a lot of that. But he just laid + down and worshipped me, and I <i>was</i> getting fond of him in a way; + only the life was so dull. I’d been used to a big city—I come from + Detroit—and Hinksville is such a poky little place; that’s where we + lived; Joe is telegraph-operator on the railroad there. He’d have been in + a much bigger place now, if he hadn’t—well, after all, he behaved + perfectly splendidly about <i>that</i>. + </p> + <p> + “I really was getting fond of him, and I believe I should have realized in + time how good and noble and unselfish he was, if his mother hadn’t been + always sitting there and everlastingly telling me so. We learned in school + about the Athenians hating some man who was always called just, and that’s + the way I felt about Joe. Whenever I did anything that wasn’t quite right + his mother would say how differently Joe would have done it. And she was + forever telling me that Joe didn’t approve of this and that and the other. + When we were alone he approved of everything, but when his mother was + round he’d sit quiet and let her say he didn’t. I knew he’d let me have my + way afterwards, but somehow that didn’t prevent my getting mad at the + time. + </p> + <p> + “And then the evenings were so long, with Joe away, and Mrs. Glenn (that’s + his mother) sitting there like an image knitting socks for the heathen. + The only caller we ever had was the Baptist minister, and he never took + any more notice of me than if I’d been a piece of furniture. I believe he + was afraid to before Mrs. Glenn.” + </p> + <p> + She paused breathlessly, and the tears in her eyes were now of anger. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Woburn gently. + </p> + <p> + “Well—then Arthur Hackett came along; he was travelling for a big + publishing firm in Philadelphia. He was awfully handsome and as clever and + sarcastic as anything. He used to lend me lots of novels and magazines, + and tell me all about society life in New York. All the girls were after + him, and Alice Sprague, whose father is the richest man in Hinksville, + fell desperately in love with him and carried on like a fool; but he + wouldn’t take any notice of her. He never looked at anybody but me.” Her + face lit up with a reminiscent smile, and then clouded again. “I hate him + now,” she exclaimed, with a change of tone that startled Woburn. “I’d like + to kill him—but he’s killed me instead. + </p> + <p> + “Well, he bewitched me so I didn’t know what I was doing; I was like + somebody in a trance. When he wasn’t there I didn’t want to speak to + anybody; I used to lie in bed half the day just to get away from folks; I + hated Joe and Hinksville and everything else. When he came back the days + went like a flash; we were together nearly all the time. I knew Joe’s + mother was spying on us, but I didn’t care. And at last it seemed as if I + couldn’t let him go away again without me; so one evening he stopped at + the back gate in a buggy, and we drove off together and caught the eastern + express at River Bend. He promised to bring me to New York.” She paused, + and then added scornfully, “He didn’t even do that!” + </p> + <p> + Woburn had returned to his seat and was watching her attentively. It was + curious to note how her passion was spending itself in words; he saw that + she would never kill herself while she had any one to talk to. + </p> + <p> + “That was five months ago,” she continued, “and we travelled all through + the southern states, and stayed a little while near Philadelphia, where + his business is. He did things real stylishly at first. Then he was sent + to Albany, and we stayed a week at the Delavan House. One afternoon I went + out to do some shopping, and when I came back he was gone. He had taken + his trunk with him, and hadn’t left any address; but in my travelling-bag + I found a fifty-dollar bill, with a slip of paper on which he had written, + ‘No use coming after me; I’m married.’ We’d been together less than four + months, and I never saw him again. + </p> + <p> + “At first I couldn’t believe it. I stayed on, thinking it was a joke—or + that he’d feel sorry for me and come back. But he never came and never + wrote me a line. Then I began to hate him, and to see what a wicked fool + I’d been to leave Joe. I was so lonesome—I thought I’d go crazy. And + I kept thinking how good and patient Joe had been, and how badly I’d used + him, and how lovely it would be to be back in the little parlor at + Hinksville, even with Mrs. Glenn and the minister talking about free-will + and predestination. So at last I wrote to Joe. I wrote him the humblest + letters you ever read, one after another; but I never got any answer. + </p> + <p> + “Finally I found I’d spent all my money, so I sold my watch and my rings—Joe + gave me a lovely turquoise ring when we were married—and came to New + York. I felt ashamed to stay alone any longer in Albany; I was afraid that + some of Arthur’s friends, who had met me with him on the road, might come + there and recognize me. After I got here I wrote to Susy Price, a great + friend of mine who lives at Hinksville, and she answered at once, and told + me just what I had expected—that Joe was ready to forgive me and + crazy to have me back, but that his mother wouldn’t let him stir a step or + write me a line, and that she and the minister were at him all day long, + telling him how bad I was and what a sin it would be to forgive me. I got + Susy’s letter two or three days ago, and after that I saw it was no use + writing to Joe. He’ll never dare go against his mother and she watches him + like a cat. I suppose I deserve it—but he might have given me + another chance! I know he would if he could only see me.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice had dropped from anger to lamentation, and her tears again + overflowed. + </p> + <p> + Woburn looked at her with the pity one feels for a child who is suddenly + confronted with the result of some unpremeditated naughtiness. + </p> + <p> + “But why not go back to Hinksville,” he suggested, “if your husband is + ready to forgive you? You could go to your friend’s house, and once your + husband knows you are there you can easily persuade him to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I could—Susy thinks I could. But I can’t go back; I haven’t + got a cent left.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely you can borrow money? Can’t you ask your friend to forward you + the amount of your fare?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Susy ain’t well off; she couldn’t raise five dollars, and it costs + twenty-five to get back to Hinksville. And besides, what would become of + me while I waited for the money? They’ll turn me out of here to-morrow; I + haven’t paid my last week’s board, and I haven’t got anything to give + them; my bag’s empty; I’ve pawned everything.” + </p> + <p> + “And don’t you know any one here who would lend you the money?” + </p> + <p> + “No; not a soul. At least I do know one gentleman; he’s a friend of + Arthur’s, a Mr. Devine; he was staying at Rochester when we were there. I + met him in the street the other day, and I didn’t mean to speak to him, + but he came up to me, and said he knew all about Arthur and how meanly he + had behaved, and he wanted to know if he couldn’t help me—I suppose + he saw I was in trouble. He tried to persuade me to go and stay with his + aunt, who has a lovely house right round here in Twenty-fourth Street; he + must be very rich, for he offered to lend me as much money as I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t take it?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she returned; “I daresay he meant to be kind, but I didn’t care to + be beholden to any friend of Arthur’s. He came here again yesterday, but I + wouldn’t see him, so he left a note giving me his aunt’s address and + saying she’d have a room ready for me at any time.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence; she had dried her tears and sat looking at + Woburn with eyes full of helpless reliance. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said at length, “you did right not to take that man’s money; + but this isn’t the only alternative,” he added, pointing to the revolver. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know any other,” she answered wearily. “I’m not smart enough to + get employment; I can’t make dresses or do type-writing, or any of the + useful things they teach girls now; and besides, even if I could get work + I couldn’t stand the loneliness. I can never hold my head up again—I + can’t bear the disgrace. If I can’t go back to Joe I’d rather be dead.” + </p> + <p> + “And if you go back to Joe it will be all right?” Woburn suggested with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she cried, her whole face alight, “if I could only go back to Joe!” + </p> + <p> + They were both silent again; Woburn sat with his hands in his pockets + gazing at the floor. At length his silence seemed to rouse her to the + unwontedness of the situation, and she rose from her seat, saying in a + more constrained tone, “I don’t know why I’ve told you all this.” + </p> + <p> + “Because you believed that I would help you,” Woburn answered, rising + also; “and you were right; I’m going to send you home.” + </p> + <p> + She colored vividly. “You told me I was right not to take Mr. Devine’s + money,” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered, “but did Mr. Devine want to send you home?” + </p> + <p> + “He wanted me to wait at his aunt’s a little while first and then write to + Joe again.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t—I want you to start tomorrow morning; this morning, I mean. + I’ll take you to the station and buy your ticket, and your husband can + send me back the money.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I can’t—I can’t—you mustn’t—” she stammered, + reddening and paling. “Besides, they’ll never let me leave here without + paying.” + </p> + <p> + “How much do you owe?” + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; I’ll pay that for you; you can leave me your revolver as a + pledge. But you must start by the first train; have you any idea at what + time it leaves the Grand Central?” + </p> + <p> + “I think there’s one at eight.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “In less than two hours, then; it’s after six now.” + </p> + <p> + She stood before him with fascinated eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You must have a very strong will,” she said. “When you talk like that you + make me feel as if I had to do everything you say.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you must,” said Woburn lightly. “Man was made to be obeyed.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’re not like other men,” she returned; “I never heard a voice like + yours; it’s so strong and kind. You must be a very good man; you remind me + of Joe; I’m sure you’ve got just such a nature; and Joe is the best man + I’ve ever seen.” + </p> + <p> + Woburn made no reply, and she rambled on, with little pauses and fresh + bursts of confidence. + </p> + <p> + “Joe’s a real hero, you know; he did the most splendid thing you ever + heard of. I think I began to tell you about it, but I didn’t finish. I’ll + tell you now. It happened just after we were married; I was mad with him + at the time, I’m afraid, but now I see how splendid he was. He’d been + telegraph operator at Hinksville for four years and was hoping that he’d + get promoted to a bigger place; but he was afraid to ask for a raise. + Well, I was very sick with a bad attack of pneumonia and one night the + doctor said he wasn’t sure whether he could pull me through. When they + sent word to Joe at the telegraph office he couldn’t stand being away from + me another minute. There was a poor consumptive boy always hanging round + the station; Joe had taught him how to operate, just to help him along; so + he left him in the office and tore home for half an hour, knowing he could + get back before the eastern express came along. + </p> + <p> + “He hadn’t been gone five minutes when a freight-train ran off the rails + about a mile up the track. It was a very still night, and the boy heard + the smash and shouting, and knew something had happened. He couldn’t tell + what it was, but the minute he heard it he sent a message over the wires + like a flash, and caught the eastern express just as it was pulling out of + the station above Hinksville. If he’d hesitated a second, or made any + mistake, the express would have come on, and the loss of life would have + been fearful. The next day the Hinksville papers were full of Operator + Glenn’s presence of mind; they all said he’d be promoted. That was early + in November and Joe didn’t hear anything from the company till the first + of January. Meanwhile the boy had gone home to his father’s farm out in + the country, and before Christmas he was dead. Well, on New Year’s day Joe + got a notice from the company saying that his pay was to be raised, and + that he was to be promoted to a big junction near Detroit, in recognition + of his presence of mind in stopping the eastern express. It was just what + we’d both been pining for and I was nearly wild with joy; but I noticed + Joe didn’t say much. He just telegraphed for leave, and the next day he + went right up to Detroit and told the directors there what had really + happened. When he came back he told us they’d suspended him; I cried every + night for a week, and even his mother said he was a fool. After that we + just lived on at Hinksville, and six months later the company took him + back; but I don’t suppose they’ll ever promote him now.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice again trembled with facile emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it beautiful of him? Ain’t he a real hero?” she said. “And I’m + sure you’d behave just like him; you’d be just as gentle about little + things, and you’d never move an inch about big ones. You’d never do a mean + action, but you’d be sorry for people who did; I can see it in your face; + that’s why I trusted you right off.” + </p> + <p> + Woburn’s eyes were fixed on the window; he hardly seemed to hear her. At + length he walked across the room and pulled up the shade. The electric + lights were dissolving in the gray alembic of the dawn. A milk-cart + rattled down the street and, like a witch returning late from the Sabbath, + a stray cat whisked into an area. So rose the appointed day. + </p> + <p> + Woburn turned back, drawing from his pocket the roll of bills which he had + thrust there with so different a purpose. He counted them out, and handed + her fifteen dollars. + </p> + <p> + “That will pay for your board, including your breakfast this morning,” he + said. “We’ll breakfast together presently if you like; and meanwhile + suppose we sit down and watch the sunrise. I haven’t seen it for years.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed two chairs toward the window, and they sat down side by side. + The light came gradually, with the icy reluctance of winter; at last a red + disk pushed itself above the opposite house-tops and a long cold gleam + slanted across their window. They did not talk much; there was a silencing + awe in the spectacle. + </p> + <p> + Presently Woburn rose and looked again at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I must go and cover up my dress-coat”, he said, “and you had better put + on your hat and jacket. We shall have to be starting in half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned away she laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t even told me your name,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he answered; “but if you get safely back to Joe you can call me + Providence.” + </p> + <p> + “But how am I to send you the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well, I’ll write you a line in a day or two and give you my + address; I don’t know myself what it will be; I’m a wanderer on the face + of the earth.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must have my name if you mean to write to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what is your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Ruby Glenn. And I think—I almost think you might send the letter + right to Joe’s—send it to the Hinksville station.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + “You promise?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I promise.” + </p> + <p> + He went back into his room, thinking how appropriate it was that she + should have an absurd name like Ruby. As he re-entered the room, where the + gas sickened in the daylight, it seemed to him that he was returning to + some forgotten land; he had passed, with the last few hours, into a wholly + new phase of consciousness. He put on his fur coat, turning up the collar + and crossing the lapels to hide his white tie. Then he put his cigar-case + in his pocket, turned out the gas, and, picking up his hat and stick, + walked back through the open doorway. + </p> + <p> + Ruby Glenn had obediently prepared herself for departure and was standing + before the mirror, patting her curls into place. Her eyes were still red, + but she had the happy look of a child that has outslept its grief. On the + floor he noticed the tattered fragments of the letter which, a few hours + earlier, he had seen her place before the mirror. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go down now?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she assented; then, with a quick movement, she stepped close + to him, and putting her hands on his shoulders lifted her face to his. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you’re the best man I ever knew,” she said, “the very best—except + Joe.” + </p> + <p> + She drew back blushing deeply, and unlocked the door which led into the + passage-way. Woburn picked up her bag, which she had forgotten, and + followed her out of the room. They passed a frowzy chambermaid, who stared + at them with a yawn. Before the doors the row of boots still waited; there + was a faint new aroma of coffee mingling with the smell of vanished + dinners, and a fresh blast of heat had begun to tingle through the + radiators. + </p> + <p> + In the unventilated coffee-room they found a waiter who had the melancholy + air of being the last survivor of an exterminated race, and who + reluctantly brought them some tea made with water which had not boiled, + and a supply of stale rolls and staler butter. On this meagre diet they + fared in silence, Woburn occasionally glancing at his watch; at length he + rose, telling his companion to go and pay her bill while he called a + hansom. After all, there was no use in economizing his remaining dollars. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments she joined him under the portico of the hotel. The hansom + stood waiting and he sprang in after her, calling to the driver to take + them to the Forty-second Street station. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the station he found a seat for her and went to buy her + ticket. There were several people ahead of him at the window, and when he + had bought the ticket he found that it was time to put her in the train. + She rose in answer to his glance, and together they walked down the long + platform in the murky chill of the roofed-in air. He followed her into the + railway carriage, making sure that she had her bag, and that the ticket + was safe inside it; then he held out his hand, in its pearl-coloured + evening glove: he felt that the people in the other seats were staring at + them. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she answered, flushing gratefully. “I’ll never forget—never. + And you <i>will</i> write, won’t you? Promise!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, of course,” he said, hastening from the carriage. + </p> + <p> + He retraced his way along the platform, passed through the dismal + waiting-room and stepped out into the early sunshine. On the sidewalk + outside the station he hesitated awhile; then he strolled slowly down + Forty-second Street and, skirting the melancholy flank of the Reservoir, + walked across Bryant Park. Finally he sat down on one of the benches near + the Sixth Avenue and lit a cigar. The signs of life were multiplying + around him; he watched the cars roll by with their increasing freight of + dingy toilers, the shop-girls hurrying to their work, the children + trudging schoolward, their small vague noses red with cold, their satchels + clasped in woollen-gloved hands. There is nothing very imposing in the + first stirring of a great city’s activities; it is a slow reluctant + process, like the waking of a heavy sleeper; but to Woburn’s mood the + sight of that obscure renewal of humble duties was more moving than the + spectacle of an army with banners. + </p> + <p> + He sat for a long time, smoking the last cigar in his case, and murmuring + to himself a line from Hamlet—the saddest, he thought, in the play— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>For every man hath business and desire</i>. +</pre> + <p> + Suddenly an unpremeditated movement made him feel the pressure of Ruby + Glenn’s revolver in his pocket; it was like a devil’s touch on his arm, + and he sprang up hastily. In his other pocket there were just four dollars + and fifty cents; but that didn’t matter now. He had no thought of flight. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes he loitered vaguely about the park; then the cold drove + him on again, and with the rapidity born of a sudden resolve he began to + walk down the Fifth Avenue towards his lodgings. He brushed past a + maid-servant who was washing the vestibule and ran up stairs to his room. + A fire was burning in the grate and his books and photographs greeted him + cheerfully from the walls; the tranquil air of the whole room seemed to + take it for granted that he meant to have his bath and breakfast and go + down town as usual. + </p> + <p> + He threw off his coat and pulled the revolver out of his pocket; for some + moments he held it curiously in his hand, bending over to examine it as + Ruby Glenn had done; then he laid it in the top drawer of a small cabinet, + and locking the drawer threw the key into the fire. + </p> + <p> + After that he went quietly about the usual business of his toilet. In + taking off his dress-coat he noticed the Legion of Honor which Miss + Talcott had given him at the ball. He pulled it out of his buttonhole and + tossed it into the fire-place. When he had finished dressing he saw with + surprise that it was nearly ten o’clock. Ruby Glenn was already two hours + nearer home. + </p> + <p> + Woburn stood looking about the room of which he had thought to take final + leave the night before; among the ashes beneath the grate he caught sight + of a little white heap which symbolized to his fancy the remains of his + brief correspondence with Miss Talcott. He roused himself from this + unseasonable musing and with a final glance at the familiar setting of his + past, turned to face the future which the last hours had prepared for him. + </p> + <p> + He went down stairs and stepped out of doors, hastening down the street + towards Broadway as though he were late for an appointment. Every now and + then he encountered an acquaintance, whom he greeted with a nod and smile; + he carried his head high, and shunned no man’s recognition. + </p> + <p> + At length he reached the doors of a tall granite building honey-combed + with windows. He mounted the steps of the portico, and passing through the + double doors of plate-glass, crossed a vestibule floored with mosaic to + another glass door on which was emblazoned the name of the firm. + </p> + <p> + This door he also opened, entering a large room with wainscotted + subdivisions, behind which appeared the stooping shoulders of a row of + clerks. + </p> + <p> + As Woburn crossed the threshold a gray-haired man emerged from an inner + office at the opposite end of the room. + </p> + <p> + At sight of Woburn he stopped short. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Woburn!” he exclaimed; then he stepped nearer and added in a low + tone: “I was requested to tell you when you came that the members of the + firm are waiting; will you step into the private office?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PORTRAIT + </h2> + <p> + It was at Mrs. Mellish’s, one Sunday afternoon last spring. We were + talking over George Lillo’s portraits—a collection of them was being + shown at Durand-Ruel’s—and a pretty woman had emphatically declared:— + </p> + <p> + “Nothing on earth would induce me to sit to him!” + </p> + <p> + There was a chorus of interrogations. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, because—he makes people look so horrid; the way one looks on + board ship, or early in the morning, or when one’s hair is out of curl and + one knows it. I’d so much rather be done by Mr. Cumberton!” + </p> + <p> + Little Cumberton, the fashionable purveyor of rose-water pastels, stroked + his moustache to hide a conscious smile. + </p> + <p> + “Lillo is a genius—that we must all admit,” he said indulgently, as + though condoning a friend’s weakness; “but he has an unfortunate + temperament. He has been denied the gift—so precious to an artist—of + perceiving the ideal. He sees only the defects of his sitters; one might + almost fancy that he takes a morbid pleasure in exaggerating their weak + points, in painting them on their worst days; but I honestly believe he + can’t help himself. His peculiar limitations prevent his seeing anything + but the most prosaic side of human nature— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘<i>A primrose by the river’s brim + A yellow primrose is to him, + And it is nothing more.</i>’” + </pre> + <p> + Cumberton looked round to surprise an order in the eye of the lady whose + sentiments he had so deftly interpreted, but poetry always made her + uncomfortable, and her nomadic attention had strayed to other topics. His + glance was tripped up by Mrs. Mellish. + </p> + <p> + “Limitations? But, my dear man, it’s because he hasn’t any limitations, + because he doesn’t wear the portrait-painter’s conventional blinders, that + we’re all so afraid of being painted by him. It’s not because he sees only + one aspect of his sitters, it’s because he selects the real, the typical + one, as instinctively as a detective collars a pick-pocket in a crowd. If + there’s nothing to paint—no real person—he paints nothing; + look at the sumptuous emptiness of his portrait of Mrs. Guy Awdrey”—(“Why,” + the pretty woman perplexedly interjected, “that’s the only nice picture he + ever did!”) “If there’s one positive trait in a negative whole he brings + it out in spite of himself; if it isn’t a nice trait, so much the worse + for the sitter; it isn’t Lillo’s fault: he’s no more to blame than a + mirror. Your other painters do the surface—he does the depths; they + paint the ripples on the pond, he drags the bottom. He makes flesh seem as + fortuitous as clothes. When I look at his portraits of fine ladies in + pearls and velvet I seem to see a little naked cowering wisp of a soul + sitting beside the big splendid body, like a poor relation in the darkest + corner of an opera-box. But look at his pictures of really great people—how + great <i>they</i> are! There’s plenty of ideal there. Take his Professor + Clyde; how clearly the man’s history is written in those broad steady + strokes of the brush: the hard work, the endless patience, the fearless + imagination of the great <i>savant</i>! Or the picture of Mr. Domfrey—the + man who has felt beauty without having the power to create it. The very + brush-work expresses the difference between the two; the crowding of + nervous tentative lines, the subtler gradations of color, somehow convey a + suggestion of dilettantism. You feel what a delicate instrument the man + is, how every sense has been tuned to the finest responsiveness.” Mrs. + Mellish paused, blushing a little at the echo of her own eloquence. “My + advice is, don’t let George Lillo paint you if you don’t want to be found + out—or to find yourself out. That’s why I’ve never let him do <i>me</i>; + I’m waiting for the day of judgment,” she ended with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Every one but the pretty woman, whose eyes betrayed a quivering impatience + to discuss clothes, had listened attentively to Mrs. Mellish. Lillo’s + presence in New York—he had come over from Paris for the first time + in twelve years, to arrange the exhibition of his pictures—gave to + the analysis of his methods as personal a flavor as though one had been + furtively dissecting his domestic relations. The analogy, indeed, is not + unapt; for in Lillo’s curiously detached existence it is difficult to + figure any closer tie than that which unites him to his pictures. In this + light, Mrs. Mellish’s flushed harangue seemed not unfitted to the + trivialities of the tea hour, and some one almost at once carried on the + argument by saying:—“But according to your theory—that the + significance of his work depends on the significance of the sitter—his + portrait of Vard ought to be a master-piece; and it’s his biggest + failure.” + </p> + <p> + Alonzo Vard’s suicide—he killed himself, strangely enough, the day + that Lillo’s pictures were first shown—had made his portrait the + chief feature of the exhibition. It had been painted ten or twelve years + earlier, when the terrible “Boss” was at the height of his power; and if + ever man presented a type to stimulate such insight as Lillo’s, that man + was Vard; yet the portrait was a failure. It was magnificently composed; + the technique was dazzling; but the face had been—well, expurgated. + It was Vard as Cumberton might have painted him—a common man trying + to look at ease in a good coat. The picture had never before been + exhibited, and there was a general outcry of disappointment. It wasn’t + only the critics and the artists who grumbled. Even the big public, which + had gaped and shuddered at Vard, revelling in his genial villany, and + enjoying in his death that succumbing to divine wrath which, as a + spectacle, is next best to its successful defiance—even the public + felt itself defrauded. What had the painter done with their hero? Where + was the big sneering domineering face that figured so convincingly in + political cartoons and patent-medicine advertisements, on cigar-boxes and + electioneering posters? They had admired the man for looking his part so + boldly; for showing the undisguised blackguard in every line of his coarse + body and cruel face; the pseudo-gentleman of Lillo’s picture was a poor + thing compared to the real Vard. It had been vaguely expected that the + great boss’s portrait would have the zest of an incriminating document, + the scandalous attraction of secret memoirs; and instead, it was as + insipid as an obituary. It was as though the artist had been in league + with his sitter, had pledged himself to oppose to the lust for post-mortem + “revelations” an impassable blank wall of negation. The public was + resentful, the critics were aggrieved. Even Mrs. Mellish had to lay down + her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the portrait of Vard <i>is</i> a failure,” she admitted, “and I’ve + never known why. If he’d been an obscure elusive type of villain, one + could understand Lillo’s missing the mark for once; but with that face + from the pit—!” + </p> + <p> + She turned at the announcement of a name which our discussion had drowned, + and found herself shaking hands with Lillo. + </p> + <p> + The pretty woman started and put her hands to her curls; Cumberton dropped + a condescending eyelid (he never classed himself by recognizing degrees in + the profession), and Mrs. Mellish, cheerfully aware that she had been + overheard, said, as she made room for Lillo— + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d explain it.” + </p> + <p> + Lillo smoothed his beard and waited for a cup of tea. Then, “Would there + be any failures,” he said, “if one could explain them?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, in some cases I can imagine it’s impossible to seize the type—or + to say why one has missed it. Some people are like daguerreotypes; in + certain lights one can’t see them at all. But surely Vard was obvious + enough. What I want to know is, what became of him? What did you do with + him? How did you manage to shuffle him out of sight?” + </p> + <p> + “It was much easier than you think. I simply missed an opportunity—” + </p> + <p> + “That a sign-painter would have seen!” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. In fighting shy of the obvious one may miss the significant—” + </p> + <p> + “—And when I got back from Paris,” the pretty woman was heard to + wail, “I found all the women here were wearing the very models I’d brought + home with me!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Mellish, as became a vigilant hostess, got up and shuffled her + guests; and the question of Yard’s portrait was dropped. + </p> + <p> + I left the house with Lillo; and on the way down Fifth Avenue, after one + of his long silences, he suddenly asked: + </p> + <p> + “Is that what is generally said of my picture of Vard? I don’t mean in the + newspapers, but by the fellows who know?” + </p> + <p> + I said it was. + </p> + <p> + He drew a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “it’s good to know that when one + tries to fail one can make such a complete success of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tries to fail?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no; that’s not quite it, either; I didn’t want to make a failure of + Vard’s picture, but I did so deliberately, with my eyes open, all the + same. It was what one might call a lucid failure.” + </p> + <p> + “But why—?” + </p> + <p> + “The why of it is rather complicated. I’ll tell you some time—” He + hesitated. “Come and dine with me at the club by and by, and I’ll tell you + afterwards. It’s a nice morsel for a psychologist.” + </p> + <p> + At dinner he said little; but I didn’t mind that. I had known him for + years, and had always found something soothing and companionable in his + long abstentions from speech. His silence was never unsocial; it was bland + as a natural hush; one felt one’s self included in it, not left out. He + stroked his beard and gazed absently at me; and when we had finished our + coffee and liqueurs we strolled down to his studio. + </p> + <p> + At the studio—which was less draped, less posed, less consciously + “artistic” than those of the smaller men—he handed me a cigar, and + fell to smoking before the fire. When he began to talk it was of + indifferent matters, and I had dismissed the hope of hearing more of + Vard’s portrait, when my eye lit on a photograph of the picture. I walked + across the room to look at it, and Lillo presently followed with a light. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is a complete disguise,” he muttered over my shoulder; then + he turned away and stooped to a big portfolio propped against the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever know Miss Vard?” he asked, with his head in the portfolio; + and without waiting for my answer he handed me a crayon sketch of a girl’s + profile. + </p> + <p> + I had never seen a crayon of Lillo’s, and I lost sight of the sitter’s + personality in the interest aroused by this new aspect of the master’s + complex genius. The few lines—faint, yet how decisive!—flowered + out of the rough paper with the lightness of opening petals. It was a mere + hint of a picture, but vivid as some word that wakens long reverberations + in the memory. + </p> + <p> + I felt Lillo at my shoulder again. + </p> + <p> + “You knew her, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + I had to stop and think. Why, of course I’d known her: a silent handsome + girl, showy yet ineffective, whom I had seen without seeing the winter + that society had capitulated to Vard. Still looking at the crayon, I tried + to trace some connection between the Miss Vard I recalled and the grave + young seraph of Lillo’s sketch. Had the Vards bewitched him? By what + masterstroke of suggestion had he been beguiled into drawing the terrible + father as a barber’s block, the commonplace daughter as this memorable + creature? + </p> + <p> + “You don’t remember much about her? No, I suppose not. She was a quiet + girl and nobody noticed her much, even when—” he paused with a smile—“you + were all asking Vard to dine.” + </p> + <p> + I winced. Yes, it was true—we had all asked Vard to dine. It was + some comfort to think that fate had made him expiate our weakness. + </p> + <p> + Lillo put the sketch on the mantel-shelf and drew his arm-chair to the + fire. + </p> + <p> + “It’s cold to-night. Take another cigar, old man; and some whiskey? There + ought to be a bottle and some glasses in that cupboard behind you... help + yourself...” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + About Vard’s portrait? (he began.) Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a queer + story, and most people wouldn’t see anything in it. My enemies might say + it was a roundabout way of explaining a failure; but you know better than + that. Mrs. Mellish was right. Between me and Vard there could be no + question of failure. The man was made for me—I felt that the first + time I clapped eyes on him. I could hardly keep from asking him to sit to + me on the spot; but somehow one couldn’t ask favors of the fellow. I sat + still and prayed he’d come to me, though; for I was looking for something + big for the next Salon. It was twelve years ago—the last time I was + out ere—and I was ravenous for an opportunity. I had the feeling—do + you writer-fellows have it too?—that there was something tremendous + in me if it could only be got out; and I felt Vard was the Moses to strike + the rock. There were vulgar reasons, too, that made me hunger for a + victim. I’d been grinding on obscurely for a good many years, without gold + or glory, and the first thing of mine that had made a noise was my picture + of Pepita, exhibited the year before. There’d been a lot of talk about + that, orders were beginning to come in, and I wanted to follow it up with + a rousing big thing at the next Salon. Then the critics had been + insinuating that I could do only Spanish things—I suppose I <i>had</i> + overdone the castanet business; it’s a nursery-disease we all go through—and + I wanted to show that I had plenty more shot in my locker. Don’t you get + up every morning meaning to prove you’re equal to Balzac or Thackeray? + That’s the way I felt then; <i>only give me a chance</i>, I wanted to + shout out to them; and I saw at once that Vard was my chance. + </p> + <p> + I had come over from Paris in the autumn to paint Mrs. Clingsborough, and + I met Vard and his daughter at one of the first dinners I went to. After + that I could think of nothing but that man’s head. What a type! I raked up + all the details of his scandalous history; and there were enough to fill + an encyclopaedia. The papers were full of him just then; he was mud from + head to foot; it was about the time of the big viaduct steal, and + irreproachable citizens were forming ineffectual leagues to put him down. + And all the time one kept meeting him at dinners—that was the beauty + of it! Once I remember seeing him next to the Bishop’s wife; I’ve got a + little sketch of that duet somewhere... Well, he was simply magnificent, a + born ruler; what a splendid condottiere he would have made, in gold armor, + with a griffin grinning on his casque! You remember those drawings of + Leonardo’s, where the knight’s face and the outline of his helmet combine + in one monstrous saurian profile? He always reminded me of that... + </p> + <p> + But how was I to get at him?—One day it occurred to me to try + talking to Miss Vard. She was a monosyllabic person, who didn’t seem to + see an inch beyond the last remark one had made; but suddenly I found + myself blurting out, “I wonder if you know how extraordinarily paintable + your father is?” and you should have seen the change that came over her. + Her eyes lit up and she looked—well, as I’ve tried to make her look + there. (He glanced up at the sketch.) Yes, she said, <i>wasn’t</i> her + father splendid, and didn’t I think him one of the handsomest men I’d ever + seen? + </p> + <p> + That rather staggered me, I confess; I couldn’t think her capable of + joking on such a subject, yet it seemed impossible that she should be + speaking seriously. But she was. I knew it by the way she looked at Vard, + who was sitting opposite, his wolfish profile thrown back, the shaggy + locks tossed off his narrow high white forehead. The girl worshipped him. + </p> + <p> + She went on to say how glad she was that I saw him as she did. So many + artists admired only regular beauty, the stupid Greek type that was made + to be done in marble; but she’d always fancied from what she’d seen of my + work—she knew everything I’d done, it appeared—that I looked + deeper, cared more for the way in which faces are modelled by temperament + and circumstance; “and of course in that sense,” she concluded, “my + father’s face <i>is</i> beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + This was even more staggering; but one couldn’t question her divine + sincerity. I’m afraid my one thought was to take advantage of it; and I + let her go on, perceiving that if I wanted to paint Vard all I had to do + was to listen. + </p> + <p> + She poured out her heart. It was a glorious thing for a girl, she said, + wasn’t it, to be associated with such a life as that? She felt it so + strongly, sometimes, that it oppressed her, made her shy and stupid. She + was so afraid people would expect her to live up to <i>him</i>. But that + was absurd, of course; brilliant men so seldom had clever children. Still—did + I know?—she would have been happier, much happier, if he hadn’t been + in public life; if he and she could have hidden themselves away somewhere, + with their books and music, and she could have had it all to herself: his + cleverness, his learning, his immense unbounded goodness. For no one knew + how good he was; no one but herself. Everybody recognized his cleverness, + his brilliant abilities; even his enemies had to admit his extraordinary + intellectual gifts, and hated him the worse, of course, for the admission; + but no one, no one could guess what he was at home. She had heard of great + men who were always giving gala performances in public, but whose wives + and daughters saw only the empty theatre, with the footlights out and the + scenery stacked in the wings; but with him it was just the other way: + wonderful as he was in public, in society, she sometimes felt he wasn’t + doing himself justice—he was so much more wonderful at home. It was + like carrying a guilty secret about with her: his friends, his admirers, + would never forgive her if they found out that he kept all his best things + for <i>her!</i> + </p> + <p> + I don’t quite know what I felt in listening to her. I was chiefly taken up + with leading her on to the point I had in view; but even through my + personal preoccupation I remember being struck by the fact that, though + she talked foolishly, she didn’t talk like a fool. She was not stupid; she + was not obtuse; one felt that her impassive surface was alive with + delicate points of perception; and this fact, coupled with her crystalline + frankness, flung me back on a startled revision of my impressions of her + father. He came out of the test more monstrous than ever, as an ugly image + reflected in clear water is made uglier by the purity of the medium. Even + then I felt a pang at the use to which fate had put the mountain-pool of + Miss Vard’s spirit, and an uneasy sense that my own reflection there was + not one to linger over. It was odd that I should have scrupled to deceive, + on one small point, a girl already so hugely cheated; perhaps it was the + completeness of her delusion that gave it the sanctity of a religious + belief. At any rate, a distinct sense of discomfort tempered the + satisfaction with which, a day or two later, I heard from her that her + father had consented to give me a few sittings. + </p> + <p> + I’m afraid my scruples vanished when I got him before my easel. He was + immense, and he was unexplored. From my point of view he’d never been done + before—I was his Cortez. As he talked the wonder grew. His daughter + came with him, and I began to think she was right in saying that he kept + his best for her. It wasn’t that she drew him out, or guided the + conversation; but one had a sense of delicate vigilance, hardly more + perceptible than one of those atmospheric influences that give the pulses + a happier turn. She was a vivifying climate. I had meant to turn the talk + to public affairs, but it slipped toward books and art, and I was faintly + aware of its being kept there without undue pressure. Before long I saw + the value of the diversion. It was easy enough to get at the political + Vard: the other aspect was rarer and more instructive. His daughter had + described him as a scholar. He wasn’t that, of course, in any intrinsic + sense: like most men of his type he had gulped his knowledge standing, as + he had snatched his food from lunch-counters; the wonder of it lay in his + extraordinary power of assimilation. It was the strangest instance of a + mind to which erudition had given force and fluency without culture; his + learning had not educated his perceptions: it was an implement serving to + slash others rather than to polish himself. I have said that at first + sight he was immense; but as I studied him he began to lessen under my + scrutiny. His depth was a false perspective painted on a wall. + </p> + <p> + It was there that my difficulty lay: I had prepared too big a canvas for + him. Intellectually his scope was considerable, but it was like the + digital reach of a mediocre pianist—it didn’t make him a great + musician. And morally he wasn’t bad enough; his corruption wasn’t + sufficiently imaginative to be interesting. It was not so much a means to + an end as a kind of virtuosity practised for its own sake, like a + highly-developed skill in cannoning billiard balls. After all, the point + of view is what gives distinction to either vice or virtue: a morality + with ground-glass windows is no duller than a narrow cynicism. + </p> + <p> + His daughter’s presence—she always came with him—gave + unintentional emphasis to these conclusions; for where she was richest he + was naked. She had a deep-rooted delicacy that drew color and perfume from + the very centre of her being: his sentiments, good or bad, were as + detachable as his cuffs. Thus her nearness, planned, as I guessed, with + the tender intention of displaying, elucidating him, of making him + accessible in detail to my dazzled perceptions—this pious design in + fact defeated itself. She made him appear at his best, but she cheapened + that best by her proximity. For the man was vulgar to the core; vulgar in + spite of his force and magnitude; thin, hollow, spectacular; a + lath-and-plaster bogey— + </p> + <p> + Did she suspect it? I think not—then. He was wrapped in her + impervious faith... The papers? Oh, their charges were set down to + political rivalry; and the only people she saw were his hangers-on, or the + fashionable set who had taken him up for their amusement. Besides, she + would never have found out in that way: at a direct accusation her + resentment would have flamed up and smothered her judgment. If the truth + came to her, it would come through knowing intimately some one—different; + through—how shall I put it?—an imperceptible shifting of her + centre of gravity. My besetting fear was that I couldn’t count on her + obtuseness. She wasn’t what is called clever; she left that to him; but + she was exquisitely good; and now and then she had intuitive felicities + that frightened me. Do I make you see her? We fellows can explain better + with the brush; I don’t know how to mix my words or lay them on. She + wasn’t clever; but her heart thought—that’s all I can say... + </p> + <p> + If she’d been stupid it would have been easy enough: I could have painted + him as he was. Could have? I did—brushed the face in one day from + memory; it was the very man! I painted it out before she came: I couldn’t + bear to have her see it. I had the feeling that I held her faith in him in + my hands, carrying it like a brittle object through a jostling mob; a + hair’s-breadth swerve and it was in splinters. + </p> + <p> + When she wasn’t there I tried to reason myself out of these subtleties. My + business was to paint Vard as he was—if his daughter didn’t mind his + looks, why should I? The opportunity was magnificent—I knew that by + the way his face had leapt out of the canvas at my first touch. It would + have been a big thing. Before every sitting I swore to myself I’d do it; + then she came, and sat near him, and I—didn’t. + </p> + <p> + I knew that before long she’d notice I was shirking the face. Vard himself + took little interest in the portrait, but she watched me closely, and one + day when the sitting was over she stayed behind and asked me when I meant + to begin what she called “the likeness.” I guessed from her tone that the + embarrassment was all on my side, or that if she felt any it was at having + to touch a vulnerable point in my pride. Thus far the only doubt that + troubled her was a distrust of my ability. Well, I put her off with any + rot you please: told her she must trust me, must let me wait for the + inspiration; that some day the face would come; I should see it suddenly—feel + it under my brush... The poor child believed me: you can make a woman + believe almost anything she doesn’t quite understand. She was abashed at + her philistinism, and begged me not to tell her father—he would make + such fun of her! + </p> + <p> + After that—well, the sittings went on. Not many, of course; Vard was + too busy to give me much time. Still, I could have done him ten times + over. Never had I found my formula with such ease, such assurance; there + were no hesitations, no obstructions—the face was <i>there</i>, + waiting for me; at times it almost shaped itself on the canvas. + Unfortunately Miss Vard was there too ... + </p> + <p> + All this time the papers were busy with the viaduct scandal. The outcry + was getting louder. You remember the circumstances? One of Vard’s + associates—Bardwell, wasn’t it?—threatened disclosures. The + rival machine got hold of him, the Independents took him to their bosom, + and the press shrieked for an investigation. It was not the first storm + Vard had weathered, and his face wore just the right shade of cool + vigilance; he wasn’t the man to fall into the mistake of appearing too + easy. His demeanor would have been superb if it had been inspired by a + sense of his own strength; but it struck me rather as based on contempt + for his antagonists. Success is an inverted telescope through which one’s + enemies are apt to look too small and too remote. As for Miss Vard, her + serenity was undiminished; but I half-detected a defiance in her unruffled + sweetness, and during the last sittings I had the factitious vivacity of a + hostess who hears her best china crashing. + </p> + <p> + One day it <i>did</i> crash: the head-lines of the morning papers shouted + the catastrophe at me:—“The Monster forced to disgorge—Warrant + out against Vard—Bardwell the Boss’s Boomerang”—you know the + kind of thing. + </p> + <p> + When I had read the papers I threw them down and went out. As it happened, + Vard was to have given me a sitting that morning; but there would have + been a certain irony in waiting for him. I wished I had finished the + picture—I wished I’d never thought of painting it. I wanted to shake + off the whole business, to put it out of my mind, if I could: I had the + feeling—I don’t know if I can describe it—that there was a + kind of disloyalty to the poor girl in my even acknowledging to myself + that I knew what all the papers were howling from the housetops.... + </p> + <p> + I had walked for an hour when it suddenly occurred to me that Miss Vard + might, after all, come to the studio at the appointed hour. Why should + she? I could conceive of no reason; but the mere thought of what, if she + <i>did</i> come, my absence would imply to her, sent me bolting back to + Twelfth Street. It was a presentiment, if you like, for she was there. + </p> + <p> + As she rose to meet me a newspaper slipped from her hand: I’d been fool + enough, when I went out, to leave the damned things lying all over the + place. + </p> + <p> + I muttered some apology for being late, and she said reassuringly: + </p> + <p> + “But my father’s not here yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father—?” I could have kicked myself for the way I bungled it! + </p> + <p> + “He went out very early this morning, and left word that he would meet me + here at the usual hour.” + </p> + <p> + She faced me, with an eye full of bright courage, across the newspaper + lying between us. + </p> + <p> + “He ought to be here in a moment now—he’s always so punctual. But my + watch is a little fast, I think.” + </p> + <p> + She held it out to me almost gaily, and I was just pretending to compare + it with mine, when there was a smart rap on the door and Vard stalked in. + There was always a civic majesty in his gait, an air of having just + stepped off his pedestal and of dissembling an oration in his umbrella; + and that day he surpassed himself. Miss Vard had turned pale at the knock; + but the mere sight of him replenished her veins, and if she now avoided my + eye, it was in mere pity for my discomfiture. + </p> + <p> + I was in fact the only one of the three who didn’t instantly “play up”; + but such virtuosity was inspiring, and by the time Vard had thrown off his + coat and dropped into a senatorial pose, I was ready to pitch into my + work. I swore I’d do his face then and there; do it as she saw it; she sat + close to him, and I had only to glance at her while I painted— + </p> + <p> + Vard himself was masterly: his talk rattled through my hesitations and + embarrassments like a brisk northwester sweeping the dry leaves from its + path. Even his daughter showed the sudden brilliance of a lamp from which + the shade has been removed. We were all surprisingly vivid—it felt, + somehow, as though we were being photographed by flash-light... + </p> + <p> + It was the best sitting we’d ever had—but unfortunately it didn’t + last more than ten minutes. + </p> + <p> + It was Vard’s secretary who interrupted us—a slinking chap called + Cornley, who burst in, as white as sweetbread, with the face of a + depositor who hears his bank has stopped payment. Miss Vard started up as + he entered, but caught herself together and dropped back into her chair. + Vard, who had taken out a cigarette, held the tip tranquilly to his fusée. + </p> + <p> + “You’re here, thank God!” Cornley cried. “There’s no time to be lost, Mr. + Vard. I’ve got a carriage waiting round the corner in Thirteenth Street—” + </p> + <p> + Vard looked at the tip of his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “A carriage in Thirteenth Street? My good fellow, my own brougham is at + the door.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know—but <i>they</i>’re there too, sir; or they will be, + inside of a minute. For God’s sake, Mr. Vard, don’t trifle!—There’s + a way out by Thirteenth Street, I tell you”— + </p> + <p> + “Bardwell’s myrmidons, eh?” said Vard. “Help me on with my overcoat, + Cornley, will you?” + </p> + <p> + Cornley’s teeth chattered. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Vard, your best friends ... Miss Vard, won’t you speak to your + father?” He turned to me haggardly;—“We can get out by the back + way?” + </p> + <p> + I nodded. + </p> + <p> + Vard stood towering—in some infernal way he seemed literally to rise + to the situation—one hand in the bosom of his coat, in the attitude + of patriotism in bronze. I glanced at his daughter: she hung on him with a + drowning look. Suddenly she straightened herself; there was something of + Vard in the way she faced her fears—a kind of primitive calm we + drawing-room folk don’t have. She stepped to him and laid her hand on his + arm. The pause hadn’t lasted ten seconds. + </p> + <p> + “Father—” she said. + </p> + <p> + Vard threw back his head and swept the studio with a sovereign eye. + </p> + <p> + “The back way, Mr. Vard, the back way,” Cornley whimpered. “For God’s + sake, sir, don’t lose a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Vard transfixed his abject henchman. + </p> + <p> + “I have never yet taken the back way,” he enunciated; and, with a gesture + matching the words, he turned to me and bowed. + </p> + <p> + “I regret the disturbance”—and he walked to the door. His daughter + was at his side, alert, transfigured. + </p> + <p> + “Stay here, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” + </p> + <p> + They measured each other an instant; then he drew her arm in his. She + flung back one look at me—a paean of victory—and they passed + out with Cornley at their heels. + </p> + <p> + I wish I’d finished the face then; I believe I could have caught something + of the look she had tried to make me see in him. Unluckily I was too + excited to work that day or the next, and within the week the whole + business came out. If the indictment wasn’t a put-up job—and on that + I believe there were two opinions—all that followed was. You + remember the farcical trial, the packed jury, the compliant judge, the + triumphant acquittal?... It’s a spectacle that always carries conviction + to the voter: Vard was never more popular than after his “exoneration”... + </p> + <p> + I didn’t see Miss Vard for weeks. It was she who came to me at length; + came to the studio alone, one afternoon at dusk. She had—what shall + I say?—a veiled manner; as though she had dropped a fine gauze + between us. I waited for her to speak. + </p> + <p> + She glanced about the room, admiring a hawthorn vase I had picked up at + auction. Then, after a pause, she said: + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t finished the picture?” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She asked to see it, and I wheeled out the easel and threw the drapery + back. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she murmured, “you haven’t gone on with the face?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + She looked down on her clasped hands and up at the picture; not once at + me. + </p> + <p> + “You—you’re going to finish it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” I cried, throwing the revived purpose into my voice. By God, + I would finish it! + </p> + <p> + The merest tinge of relief stole over her face, faint as the first thin + chirp before daylight. + </p> + <p> + “Is it so very difficult?” she asked tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “Not insuperably, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + She sat silent, her eyes on the picture. At length, with an effort, she + brought out: “Shall you want more sittings?” + </p> + <p> + For a second I blundered between two conflicting conjectures; then the + truth came to me with a leap, and I cried out, “No, no more sittings!” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at me then for the first time; looked too soon, poor child; + for in the spreading light of reassurance that made her eyes like a rainy + dawn, I saw, with terrible distinctness, the rout of her disbanded hopes. + I knew that she knew ... + </p> + <p> + I finished the picture and sent it home within a week. I tried to make it—what + you see.—Too late, you say? Yes—for her; but not for me or for + the public. If she could be made to feel, for a day longer, for an hour + even, that her miserable secret <i>was</i> a secret—why, she’d made + it seem worth while to me to chuck my own ambitions for that ... + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Lillo rose, and taking down the sketch stood looking at it in silence. + </p> + <p> + After a while I ventured, “And Miss Vard—?” + </p> + <p> + He opened the portfolio and put the sketch back, tying the strings with + deliberation. Then, turning to relight his cigar at the lamp, he said: + “She died last year, thank God.” + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Greater Inclination, by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREATER INCLINATION *** + +***** This file should be named 9190-h.htm or 9190-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/9/9190/ + +Produced by Anne Soulard, Tiffany Vergon and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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