“But don’t you think,” says Cynthia, “that as a rule we lose sight of
that quality? It’s no use trying to _cultivate_ a soul.”
“No,” you answer lazily, wisely, “I should be distinctly annoyed with
anyone who plucked my sleeve when I was busy, no matter how many
hyacinths he might wish to call to my attention. No, the true sense of
beauty thrives only where it is not watched. Unfortunately it becomes
self-conscious far too easily. And then, of course, one becomes
articulate ... after he has lost his reason for speech.... Ah,” with a
wistful little smile, “I’m mawkish today. You mustn’t start me off, my
dear. Look at the tender color on the sky and stop thinking. I’ll read
to you. Something decadent. Here.
White clouds are in the sky.
Blue shadows of the hills
Between us two must lie.
The road is rough and far.
Deep fords between us are.
I pray you not to die.”
She says nothing; she does not even sigh. She looks at you and waits.
“Ah, youth, youth! The beautiful simplicity, the terrible complexity of
inexperience. Straight, clean.... I have lost the gift. I cannot read
that poetry. Give me the sophisticated; the keen irony of Eliot; the
ponderous exaltation of the negroes....”
“Of course,” she says, in a rather chastened tone. “But I still like
music in my poetry. Don’t you still like the Hymn to Proserpine—or
don’t you remember? ‘From too much love of living——’”
Take it up and finish it smoothly, with an indulgent smile but giving it
full value and a dying fall.
“I’ll wager,” you say, smiling, “that you know every word of Rupert
Brooke.”
She blushes. “That isn’t fair! You know all about me!”
“It isn’t hard,” you say. “I was so much like you at your age, you see.
There, I’ll stop teasing. Let’s talk about something else. Look at my
greatest treasure, down there in the corner of the bookshelf. No, not
that. That’s a Blake. It’s a nice little thing, but you’ll get yourself
dusty. There it is. First edition. Did you ever see one before?”
She is not sure which of the two volumes you are speaking of; the
Beardsley Salome or the new Contes Drolatique. She is exquisitely
careful and reverent with both of them; opening one on her lap and
looking at it for a minute. She doesn’t stay interested very long,
however. She wants to listen.
“Just toys, of course,” you say. “I’m ridiculously dependent on material
things like that. The more delicate the edifice the more firm the
foundation, I’ve decided. No——” as she starts to speak, with an ardent
gasp—“I know you don’t agree with me. The tree of Job and a savorless
crust in the desert for you; with a voluptuous purple sunset in piquant
contrast....”
“That’s cruel of you!” she cries.
“Yes, it is. You mustn’t be so sensitive. I like to tease you; then I’m
always sorry. I don’t know why I do it. Yes I do. It’s really that I
envy—bitterly—your ideal asceticism. So you mustn’t pay any attention
to me. I’m pink and old and plump and I don’t know what I’m talking
about. Go on home and call up your—Boy Friend, isn’t that what you call
him? Go on out and dance, little pagan. Dance and stop worrying. I’ll
worry for you. I’ll burn incense and think of you, and pray for myself.”
She ignores this nobly. “Incense? Where do you burn it? In front of that
gold thing there?”
“Thing? My dear!” Speak gravely. “Tread softly: he hates you enough
already. He is old and you are young: he is only half divine, and
you....”
“I do believe,” she giggles, “that you’re really afraid of him!”
“Of course I am. But I shall overthrow him soon, out of my own strength.
I’m going to be a Papist.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, it has the true aestheticism of aristocracy.”
She sighs. “You say things so wonderfully. You’re absolutely
continental.”
“Dear child! You shall have some tea for that. My very special flower
tea. Sit there so I can see you while I fix it. No, don’t read that
book. It isn’t for little girls.”
She promptly begins to read it. Bring out the table and connect the
little electric range for hot water. The long shadowy room grows darker
and outside the automobiles begin to turn on their lights.
“There now,” you say. “Take this, if you like the cup.”
“Oh, isn’t it lovely! I think it’s so nice that your cups are all
different. Mother simply insists on having everything in sets, even our
books.”
Groan in agony, and you smile at each other, feeling cozy and superior.
She eats one piece of cinnamon toast and glances wistfully at another,
but decides against it.
“We’ll leave the things for Maria in the morning,” you explain. “Then
it’s perfect. Now where is that poem you were going to show me?”
“Oh, I can’t,” she cries. “It’s dreadful!”
“Don’t be silly, please,” you beg.
“All right. I think you’d better read it yourself. Don’t you hate to
have people read your things?” Miserably, she pretends to look at a book
while you read.
“But this is lovely!” you cry. “Here, I’ll read it aloud.
At night I close my window
And through the glass I see
Dancing in the moonlight
A silver tree.
I dream about it all night long,
But in the early dawn
With dream and sleep and part of youth
The tree is gone.
Lovely! It has a freshness, a sincerity....”
“Oh, honestly? You’re just saying it!”
You answer severely, “I’m not speaking now as a friend, my dear. I’m
speaking as a critic.”
“Then could you tell me how to improve it?” she begs. “It
needs—something.” You both think deeply.
“M-m-m,” say in a judicial tone. “Let’s see. One thing I’d do,
perhaps—but no. Perhaps I’d transpose the words in the penultimate line
and then it would read ‘sleep and dream’ instead of ‘dream and sleep.’
Otherwise the thing is perfect.”
She nods vigorously. “Yes, you’re very right. I see it now. Thank you so
much. It’s wonderful of you to bother.”
“Bother? It’s no bother. You don’t realize—you can’t realize what your
youth does for me. Almost, my dear, almost I forget my figure and my
horrible hair and—well, never mind. It doesn’t matter. What does
anything matter in the clearness of your voice and the gladness of your
face?”
She sits very still as you pass your hand gently over her hair. Her
shining eyes are fixed on something invisible that hovers in the room
just over your head. Mystery, or the answer to all mystery? A new
confidence, a new belief, are coming into her life. It is like being
kissed in a dream; wondering a little, but detached; peaceful in an even
exaltation.
* * * * *
The room grows darker and the swish of the motors make a faint pulsing
music from the boulevard. There comes an evening coolness. She is
thinking; her cheeks are flushed. The bright colors of the books on the
shelf are smothered in darkness, but you can see that her cheeks are
flushed. She has forgotten where she is, who she is, everything. Very
softly, taking elaborate care to avoid the tea-table, go over to the
door and lock it.