1
“THERE are,” writes the learned Winckler in his History of Love, “erotic
adventures, or misadventures, which do not arise from any real emotion
between the two people immediately concerned, but are a banal reaction
from the recent—or even remote—hurts of some other, authentic
relationship. Made much of in modern fiction, these misadventures
scarcely deserve such attention. It is unprofitable, even for the
philosophic moralist, to inquire closely into the details of such
baffling relationships; if mere flirtations, they are adulteries none
the less; and if adulteries, they still remain mere flirtations. Lacking
as they do any personal significance, these misadventures are as devoid
of lasting interest to others as to the misadventures themselves.”
With all due deference to the learned Winckler, it may perhaps be
suggested that the lack of any personal significance in such
relationships, and the discovery of it by the persons involved, is
worthy of record.... There is a charm, real if evanescent, in
impersonality; and at times the weary mind finds in this charm a blessed
anodyne. It seems, at such times, as though the very nothingness at the
heart of such a relationship were the most beautiful thing in the world.
A wanderer shipwrecked in a tumultuous tropic sea might well yearn to be
cast up on some arctic shore. Deeper than the demands of the senses is
the yearning for the Snow Princess, whose kisses are as cool as
snowflakes. There is no fever of love in those kisses; their sweet hard
chill is like the sight of marble contours; they have the calm of
eternity in them.
During his first hours with Elva Macklin, it had seemed to Felix that he
knew the profoundest secret of human wisdom—the vanity of desire. He
desired nothing in the world, least of all any gift from his
light-hearted companion in Nirvana. She had nothing to give; and
whatever she might give and he might take, it was still nothing. It was
strange, how like fire ice could be; but fire burns, and leaves nothing
the same as before—it transmutes, or destroys; and this crystal flame
left them both as they had been. They felt no need of each other; and
they could not be disappointed. They were satisfied with themselves; and
they could be content to remain strangers for all their nearness. No
kiss could bridge the gulf between them; they did not want it bridged;
and if they kissed, it was as though to prove that no intimacy, none
whatever, could shatter their splendid and perfect isolation, no mere
happy human closeness merge their triumphant individual identities.
There was a defiance in their kisses—they were proving that they could
be to each other everything and yet nothing.
It was quite true that Felix did not care, when Elva Macklin went off to
her rehearsal, whether he ever saw her again; he knew she would return;
but it made no difference. It never would make any difference. They were
strangers; they would remain strangers for ever. There was no danger of
love.
And as long as there was no danger, they would enjoy the happy charm of
each other’s strangeness....
Felix did not go to his office; he stayed in the apartment,
writing—writing a play. It was the same play he had been writing ever
since his marriage; a new version, and different from all the others.
Before, he had written fantastically of people as he wished them to be;
now he wrote of them as they were. He knew, now, what human beings were
like; himself outside the boundaries of their hopes and fears, he
understood them, pitied them, loved them. He wrote of himself as he had
been—caught hopelessly in the briary-bush of human passions.... Yes,
this was a play at last. One must, it seemed, be outside things to
understand them.
He was beginning to weary of this warm human nature in which his
imagination was immersed, when Elva Macklin came, suddenly....
“Writing?” she said indifferently.
“Yes—a play.”
“Is there a part for me in it?”
“No—not in this one.”
She talked of the rehearsal. He put his manuscript aside.... She did not
care, aside from the question of a part for her, whether he wrote plays
or not; thank heaven! She did not care whether he ever became a
playwright. She did not care if he ever did anything. She did not, the
gods be praised, believe in him!
He went over and kissed her.
2
The second day he wrote again on his play, all day, while again she went
to rehearsals. He had not gone to the office at all. He mentioned the
fact. It was evident that she did not care. Whether or not the Evening
Chronicle had a dramatic editor made no difference to her.
She talked of herself. She was doing her part in “Anatol” magnificently,
she said.
He pressed her hand, glad that she was so pleased with herself. She did
not need his reassurance. He could not have given it. He did not believe
that she would ever do that part well.
He remarked that he was writing a great play. She smiled, and patted his
hand. Probably she did not believe it. Anyway, she didn’t care, so long
as he didn’t need sympathy and encouragement....
They were very happy....
3
The end came suddenly, on the morning of the fourth day. They were
having coffee.
She yawned, and asked for another cup. “I don’t think I’ll come back
today,” she said casually.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it.
“You, too?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said frankly. “I’m getting interested in my play.... I suppose
I’ve been rather a nuisance, talking about that play!”
“And you’re bored hearing what a great actress I am!” she said.
They smiled at each other.
“It’s been very nice!” she said.
“You are a darling!” he told her.
“I’ll pay you a real compliment,” she said. “You are as much of an
egotist as I am. I like you. I can go off now and think about my part
and never give you another thought.... And you won’t mind.”
“No. But I, on the contrary, shall think about you often—and put you in
a play sometime.”
They chatted until it was time for her to go to the rehearsal.
“Will you button my spats?” she asked.
He knelt and pried the buttons into their eyelets.
“Good-bye,” she said, and lifted her face to be kissed.
For the first time, in this good-bye kiss, there was expressed a real
affection. At least, they were friends now. They wished each other well.
They cared—a little—about each other. Doubtless that was why they had
begun wanting each other’s praise, begun to be annoyed at each other’s
indifference. They were friends already—they might perhaps become more
than friends. That was why they were not going to see each other any
more.
It had been perfect. It must not be spoiled.
“Good-bye, Felix dear.”
He put his arms about her.
“Good-bye, Bobbie Eulenspiegel.”
“I do like you.”
“I like you, too.”
They kissed again, and she went.
He turned back to his play.
4
Late that evening he finished the rough draft of his second act. That
was as far as he could go. He had put into his characters all he knew of
them. The rest of the play would wait. He put his manuscript away.
And as he put it away, the thoughts that it had shut out by its
dream-like presentment of them began painfully to crowd in upon him....
Elva had been right; not caring was only a mood with him—and it was
already over. She had predicted that it would last three hours. It had
lasted three days.
All the emotions that he had forgotten and escaped rushed in to hurt and
confuse him. His little moment of careless freedom was over.... Tomorrow
he would go back to the office and see if he still had a job.
And what had been his marriage ... it could not be ended like this. He
could not simply run away. They would have to meet and talk. Make
arrangements.... The obsequies of marriage....
The past and the present were back again on his calendar.
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