This has been a short season, but I don't think it was the shortness,
crowding much into a few days, that made the pressure so great. It's
simply that year by year Washington becomes socially worse and worse.
As I looked round at that last ball of ours I pitied the people who
were nerving themselves up to trying to enjoy themselves.
Almost every one was, and looked, worn out. Here and there the
unnatural brightness of eyes or cheeks showed that somebody--usually a
young person--had been driven to some sort of stimulant to enable him
or her to hold the pace. Quick to laugh; quick to frown and bite the
lips in almost uncontrollable anger. Nerves on edge, flesh quivering.
Yet, what is one to do? To be "in it" one must go all the time; not
to go all the time, not to accept all the principal invitations, is
to make enemies right and left. Besides, who that gets into the
hysterical state which the Washington season induces can be content to
sit quietly at home when on every side there are alluring opportunities
to enjoy?
No wonder we see less and less of the men of importance. No wonder the
"sons of somebodies" and the young men of the embassies and legations
and departments, most of them amiable enough, but all just about as
near nothing as you would naturally expect, are the best the women can
get to their houses.
It is foolish; it is frightful. But it is somehow fascinating, and it
gives us women the chance to go the same reckless American gait that
the men go in their business and professions.
I am utterly worn out. I might be asleep at this moment. Yet I'm
sitting here alone, too feverish for hope of rest. And I can see
lights in Cyrus' apartment and in Senator Burke's sitting-room, and I
don't doubt poor "ma" is tossing miserably in a vain attempt to get the
sleep that used to come unasked and stay until it was fought off.
It is Lent, and the season is supposed to be over. But the rush is
still on, and other things which crowd and jam in more than fill up the
vacant space left by big, formal parties. It seems to me that there is
even as much dancing as there was two weeks ago. The only difference is
that it isn't formally arranged for beforehand.
I'd like to "shut off steam"--indeed, it seems to me that I must if
"ma" Burke is not to be sacrificed. But how can we? People expect us to
entertain, and we must go out to their affairs also. The only escape
would be to fly, and we can't do that so long as Congress is sitting.
February 27. Robert and Nadeshda are both in town, he with us, she
at the embassy. They are to be married the twelfth of April. The
engagement is to be announced to-morrow. I've never seen any one more
demure than Nadeshda, or happier. I suspect she's going to settle down
into the most domestic of women. Indeed, I know it--for, as she says,
she's afraid of him, obeys him as a dog its master, and the domestic
side of her is the only one he'll tolerate. I've always heard that her
sort of woman is the tamest, once it's under control. She has will but
no continuity. He has a stronger will and his purposes are unalterable.
So he'll continue to dominate her.
"Ma" Burke asked him, "How did you make out with her folks?"
He smiled, then laughed.
"I don't know--exactly," he said. "They couldn't talk my language nor
I theirs. So it was all done through an interpreter. And he was Mrs.
Dean's brother-in-law, Prince Glückstein, and a regular trump. He saw
them half a dozen times before I did. When I saw them everything was
lovely. They left me alone with her after twenty minutes. Finally it
was agreed that we should come back on the same steamer, her brother
accompanying her."
"But why on earth didn't you cable us?" she demanded.
"I did," he replied.
"But you didn't tell us anything," she returned.
"I told you all there was to tell," he replied.
"You only said you were coming," she objected.
"Well," he answered, looking somewhat surprised, "I knew you'd know I
wouldn't come without her."
I'm glad he didn't get it into his head to "take after" me. A woman
stands no more chance with a man like that than a rabbit with a
greyhound.
February 29. "Ma" Burke is dreadfully ill--has been for two days. The
doctors have got several large Latin names for it, but the plain truth
is that she has broken down under the strain she seemed to be bearing
so placidly. She didn't give up until she was absolutely unable to lift
herself out of bed. "I knew it was coming," she said, "but I thought I
had spirit enough to put it off till I had more time."
It wasn't until she did give up that her face really showed how badly
off she was. I was sitting by her bed when "pa" Burke and Cyrus came
in. I couldn't bear to look at them, yet I couldn't keep my eyes off
their faces. Both got deadly white at sight of her, and "pa" rushed
from the room after a moment or two. The doctor had cautioned him
against alarming her by showing any signs of grief. But "pa" couldn't
stand it. He went to his study, and the housekeeper told me he cried
like a baby. Cyrus stayed, and I couldn't help admiring the way he put
on cheerfulness.
"I'll be all right in a few days," said "ma." "It wasn't what I did; it
was what I et. I'm such a fool that I can't let things that look good
go by. And I went from house to house, munching away, cake here, candy
there, chocolate yonder, besides lunches and dinners and suppers. I et
in and I et out. Now, I reckon I've got to settle the bill. Thank the
Lord I don't have to do it standing up."
Cyrus and I went away from her room together. "If she wasn't so good,"
said he, more to himself than to me, "I'd not be so--so uncertain."
"I feel that I'm to blame," said I bitterly. "It was I that gave her
all those things to do."
He was silent, and his silence frightened me. I had felt that I was
partly to blame. His silence made me feel that I was wholly to blame,
and that he thought so.
"If I could only undo it," I said, in what little voice I could muster.
"If you only could," he muttered.
I was utterly crushed. Every bit of my courage fled, and--but what's
the use of trying to describe it? It was as if I had tried to murder
her and had come to my senses and was realizing what I'd done.
I suppose I must have shown what was in my mind, for, all of a sudden,
with a sort of sob or groan, he put his arms round me--such a strong
yet such a gentle clasp! "Don't look like that, dear!" he pleaded.
"Forgive me--it was cowardly, what I said--and not true. We're all to
blame--you the least. Haven't I seen, day after day, how you've done
everything you could to spare her--how you've worn yourself out?"
He let me go as suddenly as he had seized me.
"I'm not fit to be called a man!" he exclaimed. "Just because I loved
you, and was always thinking of you, and watching you, and worrying
about you, I neglected to think of mother. If I'd given her a single
thought I'd have known long ago that she was ill."
Just then Mrs. Burke's maid called me--she was only a few yards away,
and must have seen everything. I hurried back to the room we had
quitted a few minutes before. "You must cheer up those two big, foolish
men, child," she said. "You all think I'm going to pass over, but I'm
not. You won't get rid of me for many a year. And I rely on you to
prevent them from going all to pieces."
She paused and looked at me wistfully, as if she longed to say
something but was afraid she had no right to. I said: "What is it--ma?"
Her face brightened. "Come, kiss me," she murmured. "Thank you for
saying that. We're very different in lots of ways, being raised so
different. But hearts have a way of finding each other, haven't they?"