She laughed a little.
"Oh, I have worshipped success, too. Perhaps I still do--that isn't the
point. An animal conquers his prey, he is in competition, in constant
combat with others of his own kind, and perhaps he brings to bear a
certain amount of intelligence in the process. Intelligence isn't the
point, either. I know what I'm saying is trite, it's banal, it sounds
like moralizing, and perhaps it is, but there is so much confusion to-day
that I think we are in danger of losing sight of the simpler verities,
and that we must suffer for it. Your super-animal, your supreme-stag
subdues the other stags, but he never conquers himself, he never feels
the need of it, and therefore he never comprehends what we call tragedy."
"I gather your inference," I said, smiling.
"Well," she admitted, "I haven't stated the case with the shade of
delicacy it deserves, but I wanted to make my meaning clear. We have
raised up a class in America, but we have lost sight, a
little--considerably, I think--of the distinguishing human
characteristics. The men you were eulogizing are lords of the forest,
more or less, and we women, who are of their own kind, what they have
made us, surrender ourselves in submission and adoration to the lordly
stag in the face of all the sacraments that have been painfully
inaugurated by the race for the very purpose of distinguishing us from
animals. It is equivalent to saying that there is no moral law; or, if
there is, nobody can define it. We deny, inferentially, a human realm as
distinguished from the animal, and in the denial it seems to me we are
cutting ourselves off from what is essential human development. We are
reverting to the animal. I have lost and you have lost--not entirely,
perhaps, but still to a considerable extent--the bloom of that fervour,
of that idealism, we may call it, that both of us possessed when we were
in our teens. We had occasional visions. We didn't know what they meant,
or how to set about their accomplishment, but they were not, at least,
mere selfish aspirations; they implied, unconsciously no doubt, an
element of service, and certainly our ideal of marriage had something
fine in it."
"Isn't it for a higher ideal of marriage that we are searching?" I asked.
"If that is so," Nancy objected, "then all the other elements of our
lives are sadly out of tune with it. Even the most felicitous union of
the sexes demands sacrifice, an adjustment of wills, and these are the
very things we balk at; and the trouble with our entire class in this
country is that we won't acknowledge any responsibility, there's no
sacrifice in our eminence, we have no sense of the whole."
"Where did you get all these ideas?" I demanded.
She laughed.
"Well," she admitted, "I've been thrashing around a little; and I've read
some of the moderns, you know. Do you remember my telling you I didn't
agree with them? and now this thing has come on me like a judgment. I've
caught their mania for liberty, for self-realization--whatever they call
it--but their remedies are vague, they fail to convince me that
individuals achieve any quality by just taking what they want, regardless
of others."....
I was unable to meet this argument, and the result was that when I was
away from her I too began to "thrash around" among the books in a vain
search for a radical with a convincing and satisfying philosophy. Thus we
fly to literature in crises of the heart! There was no lack of writers
who sought to deal--and deal triumphantly with the very situation in
which I was immersed. I marked many passages, to read them over to Nancy,
who was interested, but who accused me of being willing to embrace any
philosophy, ancient or modern, that ran with the stream of my desires. It
is worth recording that the truth of this struck home. On my way back to
the city I reflected that, in spite of my protests against Maude's
going--protests wholly sentimental and impelled by the desire to avoid
giving pain on the spot--I had approved of her departure because I didn't
want her. On the other hand I had to acknowledge if I hadn't wanted
Nancy, or rather, if I had become tired of her, I should have been
willing to endorse her scruples.... It was not a comforting thought.
One morning when I was absently opening the mail I found at my office I
picked up a letter from Theodore Watling, written from a seaside resort
in Maine, the contents of which surprised and touched me, troubled me,
and compelled me to face a situation with which I was wholly unprepared
to cope. He announced that this was to be his last term in the Senate. He
did not name the trouble his physician had discovered, but he had been
warned that he must retire from active life. "The specialist whom I saw
in New York," he went on, "wished me to resign at once, but when I
pointed out to him how unfair this would be to my friends in the state,
to my party as a whole--especially in these serious and unsettled
times--he agreed that I might with proper care serve out the remainder of
my term. I have felt it my duty to write to Barbour and Dickinson and one
or two others in order that they might be prepared and that no time may
be lost in choosing my successor. It is true that the revolt within the
party has never gained much headway in our state, but in these days it is
difficult to tell when and where a conflagration may break out, or how
far it will go. I have ventured to recommend to them the man who seems to
me the best equipped to carry on the work I have been trying to do
here--in short, my dear Hugh, yourself. The Senate, as you know, is not a
bed of roses just now for those who think as we do; but I have the less
hesitancy in making the recommendation because I believe you are not one
to shun a fight for the convictions we hold in common, and because you
would regard, with me, the election of a senator with the new views as a
very real calamity. If sound business men and lawyers should be
eliminated from the Senate, I could not contemplate with any peace of
mind what might happen to the country. In thus urging you, I know you
will believe me when I say that my affection and judgment are equally
involved, for it would be a matter of greater pride than I can express to
have you follow me here as you have followed me at home. And I beg of you
seriously to consider it.... I understand that Maude and the children are
abroad. Remember me to them affectionately when you write. If you can
find it convenient to come here, to Maine, to discuss the matter, you may
be sure of a welcome. In any case, I expect to be in Washington in
September for a meeting of our special committee. Sincerely and
affectionately yours, Theodore Watling."
It was characteristic of him that the tone of the letter should be
uniformly cheerful, that he should say nothing whatever of the blow this
must be to his ambitions and hopes; and my agitation at the new and
disturbing prospect thus opened up for me was momentarily swept away by
feelings of affection and sorrow. A sharp realization came to me of how
much I admired and loved this man, and this was followed by a pang at the
thought of the disappointment my refusal would give him. Complications I
did not wish to examine were then in the back of my mind; and while I
still sat holding the letter in my hand the telephone rang, and a message
came from Leonard Dickinson begging me to call at the bank at once.
Miller Gorse was there, and Tallant, waving a palm-leaf while sitting
under the electric fan. They were all very grave, and they began to talk
about the suddenness of Mr. Watling's illness and to speculate upon its
nature. Leonard Dickinson was the most moved of the three; but they were
all distressed, and showed it--even Tallant, whom I had never credited
with any feelings; they spoke about the loss to the state. At length
Gorse took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it; the smoke, impelled by
the fan, drifted over the panelled partition into the bank.
"I suppose Mr. Watling mentioned to you what he wrote to us," he said.
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well," he asked, "what do you think of it?"
"I attribute it to Mr. Watling's friendship," I replied.
"No," said Gorse, in his businesslike manner, "Watling's right, there's
no one else." Considering the number of inhabitants of our state, this
remark had its humorous aspect.
"That's true," Dickinson put in, "there's no one else available who
understands the situation as you do, Hugh, no one else we can trust as we
trust you. I had a wire from Mr. Barbour this morning--he agrees. We'll
miss you here, but now that Watling will be gone we'll need you there.
And he's right--it's something we've got to decide on right away, and get
started on soon, we can't afford to wobble and run any chances of a
revolt."
"It isn't everybody the senatorship comes to on a platter--especially at
your age," said Tallant.
"To tell you the truth," I answered, addressing Dickinson, "I'm not
prepared to talk about it now. I appreciate the honour, but I'm not at
all sure I'm the right man. And I've been considerably upset by this news
of Mr. Watling."
"Naturally you would be," said the banker, sympathetically, "and we share
your feelings. I don't know of any man for whom I have a greater
affection than I have for Theodore Wading. We shouldn't have mentioned it
now, Hugh, if Watling hadn't started the thing himself, if it weren't
important to know where we stand right away. We can't afford to lose the
seat. Take your time, but remember you're the man we depend upon."
Gorse nodded. I was aware, all the time Dickinson was speaking, of being
surrounded by the strange, disquieting gaze of the counsel for the
Railroad....
I went back to my office to spend an uneasy morning. My sorrow for Mr.
Watling was genuine, but nevertheless I found myself compelled to
consider an honour no man lightly refuses. Had it presented itself at any
other time, had it been due to a happier situation than that brought
about by the illness of a man whom I loved and admired, I should have
thought the prospect dazzling indeed, part and parcel of my amazing luck.
But now--now I was in an emotional state that distorted the factors of
life, all those things I hitherto had valued; even such a prize as this I
weighed in terms of one supreme desire: how would the acceptance of the
senatorship affect the accomplishment of this desire? That was the
question. I began making rapid calculations: the actual election would
take place in the legislature a year from the following January; provided
I were able to overcome Nancy's resistance--which I was determined to
do--nothing in the way of divorce proceedings could be thought of for
more than a year; and I feared delay. On the other hand, if we waited
until after I had been duly elected to get my divorce and marry Nancy my
chances of reelection would be small. What did I care for the senatorship
anyway--if I had her? and I wanted her now, as soon as I could get her.
She--a life with her represented new values, new values I did not define,
that made all I had striven for in the past of little worth. This was a
bauble compared with the companionship of the woman I loved, the woman
intended for me, who would give me peace of mind and soul and develop
those truer aspirations that had long been thwarted and starved for lack
of her. Gradually, as she regained the ascendency over my mind she
ordinarily held--and from which she had been temporarily displaced by the
arrival of Mr. Watling's letter and the talk in the bank--I became
impatient and irritated by the intrusion. But what answer should I give
to Dickinson and Gorse? what excuse for declining such an offer? I
decided, as may be imagined, to wait, to temporize.
The irony of circumstances--of what might have been--prevented now my
laying this trophy at Nancy's feet, for I knew I had only to mention the
matter to be certain of losing her.