OLD FRIENDS MEET--AND PART
Four years after their marriage Yetta and Isadore received a tangible
token of the respect in which they were held by their Comrades. They
were chosen among the delegates to the International Socialist Congress
which was to meet in London. No one who is not an active worker in the
Socialist party can appreciate how much this election means to the
Comrades. Every three years the party has to choose half a dozen of its
members as most worthy to represent them in the international councils.
It is a real honor.
They were, after their four years of unremitting work on _The Clarion_,
in need of a vacation. They had not had one since their honeymoon in the
woods. But, except for the eight lazy days in the second cabin of a slow
steamer, they found very little rest at the Congress. Besides the
regular sessions, so much time went to getting acquainted with the
European Comrades, whose names they had long revered, whose books they
had read. It took a big effort to escape long enough to have a look at
the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey. That was all the sight-seeing
they did in London.
The next to the last day, when Yetta reached her seat in the convention
hall, she found a letter on her desk. She did not at first recognize the
handwriting.
"DEAR YETTA.
I suppose you've quite forgotten me. But try to remember.
Can't you and Isadore come down to Oxford for a few days after the
Congress? Walter noticed your name in the paper among the
delegates. We are both anxious to renew the old friendships. When
can we expect you?
Sincerely,
BEATRICE LONGMAN."
Yetta was glad that Isadore had been detained in the corridor. She put
the letter in her pocket before he joined her. All day long this
invitation was flitting back and forth from the back of her brain to the
front. In every moment of half leisure she thought about it, and more
and more she wanted to go. It was partly curiosity to see what sort of a
life Walter had made for himself, partly a desire to exhibit her own
happiness. She did not want him to think she was still broken-hearted.
And it was partly a very real tenderness for these old friends who very
long ago had meant so much to her. But it was not until they were alone
together in their modest hotel room at night that she spoke to Isadore
about it.
"Oh, I forgot. Here's a letter that came from Mrs. Longman.--You
remember she used to be Mrs. Karner."
"Well," he said, when he had read it, "that's simple. We're too busy."
"But I'd like to see them again."
"You would?" he asked in surprise--and a little hurt. "All right; of
course, if you want to. I've got to rush back. But there's no reason why
you shouldn't stay."
"Don't be foolish, dear," she said. "You know I won't stay a minute
longer than you. I wouldn't think of going alone. We could leave here
after lunch Thursday and stay in Oxford for dinner and catch our boat
all right. You see, dearest, it's sort of like dying never to see people
who meant so much once. You don't know how much I grieve about Mabel.
She was my first friend--the first real friend I ever had. It was my
fault that we quarrelled. I wouldn't like to feel that it was my fault
if I lost all touch with Walter and Mrs. Karner--I mean Mrs. Longman.
They've asked us to come in a friendly spirit. I think we ought to go."
"Very well," he said. "Wire that we'll come. But it sounded to me like a
sort of duty note--not exactly cordial."
As a matter of fact it had not been in an entirely cordial spirit that
Beatrice had written.
One morning Walter, who very rarely disturbed his wife when she was
writing, knocked at the door of her work-room.
"May I interrupt a minute," he asked apologetically.
"What is it?" she asked.
He came over and laid a newspaper on her table, pointing halfway down a
column which was headed, "International Socialist Congress." Among the
names of the delegates from the United States were those of Isadore and
Yetta Braun.
"You'd like to have me invite them out here?" she asked.
"Yes, if it isn't inconvenient. I'd like to see them again."
For the next few days Beatrice's work went wrong. More often than not
she found herself looking up from her paper, staring out through the
window, across the lawn to the grape arbor. She would catch herself at
it and turn again to her work. Finally she decided that she had best
fight it out. So--forgetting to put the cap on her fountain-pen--she
walked out into the garden.
There was no possible doubt of it. She was afraid of Yetta--jealous! She
tried to laugh at herself, but it hurt too much. Yetta was years younger
than she.
Isadore she had scarcely known, was not quite sure whether she had the
name attached to the right vague memory, but she held an impression that
he was an unattractive person. Yetta had probably married him in
discouragement. Undoubtedly she still loved Walter. In these last four
years Beatrice had been constantly discovering that he was more lovable
than she had realized before. Yes; Yetta was probably still in love with
him. Would she accept the invitation?
A telegraph boy turned into their gate. She had not opened a despatch
with such unsteady nervousness in a long time.
"Arrive Oxford thursday afternoon four o'clock leave ten for
Liverpool Yetta"
Beatrice walked slowly back to the house and into Walter's study. It was
as dissimilar from her very orderly work-room as well might be. There
were three large tables, but each was too small for the litter of books
and charts and drawings and closely written notes it carried.
"They're coming to-morrow at four," she said, handing him the telegram.
"Good."
"I suppose we'd best have tea and then sight-see them around the
colleges till dinner."
"I guess the tour is obligatory," he said with a grimace. "Has the Muse
been refractory this morning? I saw you rambling round in the garden."
"Yes," her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Had to fight out a new idea.
It's provoking. You get things nicely planned out, everything marching
placidly to a happy ending--then something unexpected turns up, some
eleventh-hour disturbance. Something you've got to take time off to
think out."
"Fine," he said. "You're growing into a more realistic vision of life
all the time, B. And that means constantly improving novels."
He got up and walked about the room, developing into quite a speech his
ideas on the Unexpected Element in Life and how it deserved more
recognition in literature. But all the time, while she was appearing to
listen in rapture to his wisdom, she was telling herself bitter things
about the literal-minded, uncomprehending male.
Thursday afternoon as Yetta and Isadore found their places in the train
for Oxford they both had an unusual feeling of tongue-tiedness. They
were quite tired and it was a relief to have sleepiness as an excuse for
not talking. Yetta was not conscious of any stress between them. She
believed that Isadore was as sleepy as he pretended to be. It seemed to
her the most natural thing in the world to renew old friendships.
She opened her eyes now and then for a glimpse at the unfamiliar
countryside. But most of the time she dreamily lived over again "the old
days." She was generally too busy to think these things out
leisurely--as you must if you are to think of them at all. She found it
hard to recognize the picture of herself which she drew out of her
memory. The few years, which had passed since her marriage, seemed to
her much longer and fuller than all her life before. She, a mother of
two children, found it very hard to sympathize with the _jeune fille_,
who had been so very much in love with this man she had scarcely seen a
dozen times. She was half sorry she had accepted the invitation. She was
no longer the same person whom Walter and Beatrice had known. Instead of
renewing an old acquaintance, her visit to Oxford would be that of a
stranger. It would be embarrassing if Walter treated her like the girl
he had known. But it never occurred to her that Isadore was suffering
from jealous apprehension.
"Oxford's the next station," Isadore said.
It jerked her out of her revery. As they got off the train there was a
kaleidoscopic moment, an impression of many people rushing hither and
thither in a senseless chaos. Then suddenly the vagueness dissolved, and
there were Walter and Beatrice, the blank look on their faces just
melting into a smile of recognition. Everybody shook hands, the women
kissed each other, and Walter and Isadore rushed off to check the bags.
Yetta's motherhood had changed her subtly. She could not have been
called matronly. In fact, Beatrice, who was childless, was poignantly
conscious that she looked the more like a regulation matron. The
contrast hurt her.
The thing which Yetta saw was that Beatrice had come to reflect the
gracious refinement of her surroundings. There was a sudden longing that
life might have thrown her into an environment where she too could have
given time and thought to being beautiful. It was rare indeed that she
could devote ten minutes to "doing her hair." It took all the time she
could spare to keep herself clean and neat. Beatrice's appearance
suggested that the selecting of even her underwear was a matter of
careful thought. Yetta, also, was poignantly conscious of the contrast.
When the men rejoined them, they all--still under the constraint of
stock-taking--climbed into the dogcart and drove through the quaint
Oxford streets to the house.
Yetta talked busily--a bit raggedly--about her two children. Walter
pointed out the towers of some of the colleges. Neither Beatrice nor
Isadore added much to the conversation. The tea-table was set on the
lawn, but the constraint was still on them. Yetta told with slightly
forced enthusiasm of the little house and lot they had taken in a
Building and Loan Association on Long Island. Isadore at last rallied in
reply to Walter's questions and talked about the International Congress.
The thing which had impressed him most was the widespread growth of
revolutionary, nonpolitical labor organizations. The growth of
industrial unionism in America was closely paralleled by the
_Syndicaliste_ movement in Europe.
"I never gave you sufficient credit as a prophet, Walter," he said.
"I'm an orthodox party member still, but this 'direct actionism' doesn't
seem so much like heresy to me as it did. It's too universal to be all
wrong."
When they got up from the table to wander about in the University, he
and Walter walked ahead, still in the heat of this discussion. The women
brought up the rear. Yetta found that the easiest things to talk about
were the babies and Beatrice's novels. She had read and liked them very
much.
They sat down together in the grounds of Christ Church, and Isadore
began to tell about _The Clarion_. Yetta joined in the men's talk, and
Beatrice felt herself decidedly out of it. She was glad when the time
came to go back for dinner. But that was no better, for still the talk
clung to _The Clarion_. It interested them so much that she could not
find heart to change the subject.
The moon came up royally as they took their coffee on the terrace.
Without any one suggesting it, they strolled down the lawn and along the
river. Great trees stretched their branches overhead across the stream.
It was a warm night, and many boats were out. Their gay lanterns
glistened over the water. Here and there a song floated through the
dusk. The predominant note of the scene was laughter.
But the riverside did not seem beautiful to Isadore; Beatrice had never
cared less for it. Walter and Yetta were walking on ahead.
Beatrice found a sort of whimsical sympathy for her companion--realizing
that he also was troubled by the turn things had taken. The unrest of
each infected the other. It required all the social tact she could
command to keep up the semblance of a conversation.
Yetta had taken Walter's arm, and for a while they walked in silence.
But somehow the constraint suddenly fell away, and she felt in him the
old friend to whom it had always been so easy to talk.
"It's strange," she said, "how very often I have taken your advice and
found it good. More and more I realize what a big factor you've been in
my life. A dozen times I've been on the point of writing to you. But
it's so hard to put on paper the deeper sort of thanks."
Walter tried to protest.
"Oh, yes," she insisted. "I've lots of things to thank you for. It's
hard to put it into words. But now that it's ancient history, now that
the wounds have healed, I want to talk about it. When you told me to
marry Isadore, it seemed like the cruelest words that could be spoken.
You were right in smashing up my romance. But of all the lessons you
ever set me, that was the hardest to learn, the bitterest. I could not
take your word for it. I had to learn it for myself. But if you had not
driven me to it, I would have been a romanticist still--always weaving
dreams. I would never have found the wonder and beauty of life as it is.
"I guess any suffering is worth while that teaches a real lesson. I can
be philosophic about those tear-stained months now. But they were dreary
enough--and sometimes worse. I don't believe there was anything that Job
said about the day he was born that I did not echo.
"Isadore was wonderful those days. He didn't give me any advice nor try
to comfort me. He just called me up in the morning and gave me enough
work for six people. I did have a little sense left. I could see that
work was my only hope of pulling through. _The Clarion_ office was the
busiest place I could find--so I cut loose from the League and went down
there.
"But Mabel has never forgiven me for leaving her. I've hardly seen her
since."
They walked on for a moment in silence, and then she took up her story
again.
"My real ignorance used to be that I thought there could be no love
without romance. I thought they were the same thing. And that's the
wonder of reality, it calls out something so immensely deeper than
dream-love. I see Isadore's crooked shoulder as clearly as any one. I
know the words he insists on mispronouncing. I know the little,
uncontrolled hooks of his temper that things are always catching on. I
don't for a moment think he's a god. Perhaps it is just the fact that I
know him so very much better than other people do that would make me
laugh at any one who said I didn't truly love him! And then the babies!
Think of it, Walter. I've got two of them. My very own! You said
something like this once--that flesh and blood were more wonderful than
any dream. It was a hard, painful lesson to learn, but I guess it's the
one I want to thank you for most."
"It's a truth," Walter replied, "which Beatrice has helped me to
rediscover very often these last years. We love each other with a big E.
It certainly didn't start with the romantic capital L. It's just the
opposite of that proposition--of the flaming beginning that gradually
peters out. It's something with us that's alive--growing every day."
Her hand on his arm gave him a friendly, understanding squeeze.
"It's so wonderful a world," she said, "it almost hurts! There's so
very, very much to do. The minutes are so amazingly full. And somehow it
all seems to centre around the babies. They've given Socialism a new
meaning to me, have brought it all nearer, made it more intimate and
personal, more closely woven into myself. Isadore and I were used to the
tenements, they'd ceased to impress us--till the babies came. I'm glad
my little brood can grow up in the sunlight and fresh air, with a little
grass to play on. But the thought of all the millions of babies in the
slums has become the very corner-stone of my thinking. It's for them.
We've just got to win Socialism for the babies! I wish you could see
mine. I'll send you a photograph."
Her mind switched off to more concrete problems; she talked of immediate
plans and hopes. Meanwhile, Isadore kept looking at his watch, and each
time he pulled it out, Beatrice asked him what time it was. At last it
was necessary to turn back to catch the train.
* * * * *
Conversation lagged as the Longmans walked home from the station. Walter
was wrapped up in some line of thought and Beatrice's first efforts fell
flat. The silence became oppressive to her as they entered their house.
"Walter," she said, "I'd bid as high as three shillings for your
thoughts."
"Keep your money. These are jewels beyond price." He tumbled himself
lazily into a big leather chair. "What they tell about that paper of
theirs is amazing. I'm beginning to see some reason for the hostility
which the working-class has for the 'intellectuals.' If Isadore had
asked my advice,--or any of the college-bred Socialists in New
York,--he'd have been told that it was absolutely impossible to pull
through with a daily. Well, the working-class knew what they wanted and
darned if they didn't get it! It's amazing!"
"Walter, if I really believed that was what you'd been thinking about,
I'd kiss you."
"I don't see why you shouldn't do both," he said, making room for her in
the chair beside him. But seeing a suspicious glitter in her eyes, he
sprang up. "Why, B.! You're crying! What's the matter?"
She put her hands on his shoulders and looked searchingly in his face.
"Honest? Cross your heart to die? Weren't you thinking about Yetta?"
"You little idiot," he said, with the glow which comes to a man who is
being indirectly flattered. "Been jealous, have you?"
He picked her up in his arms.
"Let's go out on the porch. I'll tell you everything she said to me--and
then we'll look up at the moon."
* * * * *
"Well," Yetta said, settling herself in the compartment of the train, as
the lights of Oxford slipped past the windows, "I'm glad we visited
them."
Isadore moved uneasily.
"It wasn't unpleasant?" he asked in Yiddish--so that the other
passengers might not understand. "I don't feel as if I showed up very
well in comparison to Walter."
She leaned forward so she could look him squarely in the face.
"Isadore!" she said in an aggrieved tone, "can't men ever understand
women--not even the very simplest things? Three years I wasted
dreaming--no; I won't say 'wasted.' I haven't any quarrel with my
girlhood. Three years I dreamed about him. But it's four years now--four
years--that I've lived with you. Can't you understand how immense that
difference seems to a woman? There are some of my ideas, perhaps, some
of my intellect that he's father of. But, Isadore, you're the father of
my children."
"Yes," he said, somewhat comforted. "I think I can understand a little
of that--but--well, I never wished I had money so much before. I wish I
could give you the things Walter would have."
"Don't you do any mourning about that," she said brazenly, "till I begin
it."
She slipped her hand into his, indifferent to the other passengers. Her
conscience hurt a little on this score, for after all she had envied
Beatrice's opportunity to be beautiful. They sat silent for quite a long
interval.
"I'm glad we visited them," she went on. "But I'm gladder that we're
started home again. I'm crazy to get back."
"Worrying about the kids?"
"Oh, yes! Of course, I worry about them all the time. Aunt Martha's as
good to them as she knows how, but she's so old-fashioned. But I'm glad
for another reason. I never realized before the real difference between
Walter and me. It's a wonderfully beautiful life, that cottage of
theirs, the books, the old colleges, and the river. You can't deny that
there's a graciousness about it. But it would kill me. He's happy
thinking about things. But I'd die if I wasn't doing things! Love isn't
enough by itself. I'd starve. I'm hungry to get back to work. That's the
Real Thing, we got, Isadore. It makes our Love worth while. Our Work."
* * * * *
The following pages contain advertisements of Macmillan books by the
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it many a wise, witty, and penetrating reflection on human life and
destiny.
_Press Opinions_
The Times.--"It is crammed full of life and beauty ... this
delicious, fantastical, amorphous, inspired medley of
topsy-turvydom."
The Athenæum.--"In 'The Crock of Gold' Mr. Stephens gives the
measure of a larger and more individual talent than could have been
absolutely foretold.... There has been nothing hitherto quite like
it, but it is safe to prophesy that by and by there will be plenty
of imitators to take it for their pattern.... Mr. Stephens has
produced a remarkably fine and attractive work of art."
The Globe.--"We have read nothing quite like 'The Crock of Gold.'
It has a charm and humor peculiar to itself, and places its author
high in the ranks of imaginative poetic writers."
The Nation.--"The final state (in the case of the reviewer) was one
of complete surrender to the author--'go on, go on, fiddle on your
theme what harmonics you will; this is delightful.'... Mr.
Stephens's novel, 'The Charwoman's Daughter,' was a remarkable
book, and, in this one, he shows he can succeed as well in quite
other directions."
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York