In a short while the urge came, and they wished to leave the great house
with its lights, its vast rooms, its servants and its gorgeously
costumed lackeys. No volition of their own forced them out, but they
were compelled to go forth and select the soil in which they should
place the foundations, and upon these foundations, build their own
lives. As the spirit moved they went from time to time arm in arm, and
roamed from one street to another, and it gave them happiness. Together
they discussed each department into which they went, its advantages and
disadvantages, and with unconcealed joy, they haggled with persons who
dealt in these things.
When it became bruited abroad that they were in search of an apartment,
agents appeared upon the scene and told them in specious exaggeration,
how each place that each offered was superior to that offered by any
other agent. The superlative rested in their offerings.
Clarinda and her husband marched from one tiny place to another tiny
place, that had tiny rooms with even smaller additions called
kitchenettes.
Weeks were spent in this occupation, until eventually, after many times
referring back to the judgment of her father and long consultations with
her mother, they found a place upon a quiet street. It seemed to them
suitable soil in which they could sink their tentacles. They knew that
within these four walls they would find happiness, for both of them
thought that happiness was a matter of location.
The man as he went with Clarinda listened to her discussions, her
objections or her periods of admiration with enthusiasm, and agreed that
however small the place might be it made no difference as its very
smallness precluded the possibility of their being far from each other.
For many nights, before they fled from the big house of their honeymoon,
they sat late and discussed the pleasure it would give them, when he
should come home after the grind of the day’s work and he and she would
make plans for their betterment.
As he and Clarinda talked over these matters, he would rise from his
seat beside her and pace the floor in great agitation. Up and down the
big room, from one end to the other he paced, and he would draw for her
pictures of what they should have, of each piece of furniture and
described of what sort it should be, and it gave him pleasure to suggest
to her how each piece should be placed and to each suggestion, Clarinda
agreed eagerly.
“We shall sit upon the divan in the evenings,” he said, “and you will
sit close to me—ever so close. Naturally, we shall have a divan. We
could not do without a thing of that sort—a big cushy one. I want it to
eat up the room. We’ll place it directly in front of the fireplace.
Don’t you think it will be fine in the winter evenings with the fire
going lazily up the chimney? Just you and I there together with the big
world shut out.”
“And behind the divan, we shall have a tall lamp,” she broke in. “What
do you think of a pink shade?”
“Just finishes the picture as I have it in mind. By all means a pink
shade,” he replied enthusiastically.
“I do so like clocks. Shall we have a clock? You see I could watch the
clock, and then I should know when you were coming and maybe it would
not be so hard to wait,” said Clarinda with a plaintive tone in her
voice, as if she already felt the sorrow of his absence.
“Of course we shall have to have a clock—a chime clock. One of the kind
that strikes different tones for each quarter of an hour. You know the
kind I mean,” he assented quickly.
And so they built their castle and fitted it with the things they
thought they would love, and they did not know it was all foolish and
futile.
They moved into the spot they had selected, and adapted and placed the
furniture they had chosen. The divan, for it was upon the divan all
their future lives were to be planned, was in the room, and it took up a
lot of space just as they thought it would. Behind the divan they placed
a tall lamp with a pink shade that sent an even glow over them and threw
no shadows, and Clarinda liked the dim light. When the man had gone in
the mornings to his place of business, she would cuddle herself on the
divan and her mind gloated upon the things about her, and her happiness
was complete.
Then her friends came—the bridesmaids, and the others, those who had
stood about and been fed, and who drank the wine to excess and had gone
unsteadily over the polished floors; they sat upon the divan, and
Clarinda thought they desecrated it; they rushed from one tiny room to
the other and peered with malicious eyes into the kitchenette; and they
smiled among themselves at the tininess of the place, and gave their
unerring judgment on its possibilities. Clarinda’s mother soon came, and
she turned the things about and bemoaned with her husband the meagerness
of the setting and of the furnishings.
Clarinda watched her mother move about the place as she put things as
she would have them, and when she was gone Clarinda moved them back
again to their original positions. The man laughed and spoke jestingly
of her mother’s taste. In her heart her mother pitied her. But the old
man was proud of Clarinda and presaged for her all the things he so
desired she should have. He did not forget the doleful street, the
poorness of the surroundings, and the flimsiness of his first home. His
start he remembered was so much poorer than Clarinda’s. Yet he could not
forget the pride and the pleasure he had derived from it, and his heart
beat with infinite joy then, as Clarinda’s beat now.
Now the round of life was upon them. The man and the maid fell into the
swing. The nest was finished, its sides were put together with infinite
care. Each twig was intertwined with every other twig, in order that it
might be strong and withstand the assaults of wind and weather. The man
looked on with pride, and Clarinda was filled with unbounded faith.
Never before had she experienced such pleasure, even in the luxury of
her father’s house, as when she sat in the mornings at her own table
with her husband, and he at the lower end while the trim little maid
brought their breakfast.
Clarinda loved the silver as it stood in front of her, and derived a
sensation of sweetness from her surroundings, as she asked whether he
would have sugar in his coffee. She knew perfectly what he liked, but
there was something wonderful to her to ask each morning with the same
anxiety. It pleased her to pour each morning, each cup of coffee, but
she did so with perturbation. Always she asked whether it was just
right, and always he answered it could not be more perfect. Her heart
was filled with apprehension, for it was possible she might make a
mistake—it might not be just right.
Each morning at a precise time, the man left the house, and each morning
he kissed her goodbye and held her close to his heart. Each morning she
went to the door and watched him go down the stairs, then she rushed to
the window to watch him wave his hand to her before he disappeared
around the corner, and she smiled and was happy.
Then one day in June, just as her wedding had taken place upon a day in
June, the day broke as usual, and the sun came up. The early morning
breezes fluttered the trees. The usual breakfast had been partaken of.
Clarinda had asked the same questions and had received the same replies.
The trim little maid had done her duty. Life seemed as happy and as
justifiable as ever.
The man arose from his seat and rushed from the room. Clarinda stood
upon this memorable morning in the doorway as he went away. She looked
after him as he went rapidly down the stairs, and slowly she closed the
door behind her.
Clarinda felt the negation of the man’s service. She craved the kiss he
had given her each morning. She did not sing when she closed the door,
nor did she rush to the window and wait for him to pass the corner. From
that moment a wound had been made in her heart and the blood dripped
from the gash.
The man did not fail to kiss his wife through malice. Kisses had simply
grown stale in his mouth, and now seemed to him a useless observance.
He thought of these things as he went along, and the more he turned them
over in his mind, the more convinced he became he had made a mistake.
The thought of these things remained with him all the morning, and for
some unexplained reason he did not work as well. He lacked interest and
the work dragged more than ordinarily. Still he argued within himself as
if to justify his position, that kissing was a foolish observance and it
ought to be laid aside.
The day dragged for him, and the clocks in the various steeples struck
the hours with the same indifference as they did every day. The crowds
on the pavements went by as on every other day, with the same intent
upon their own difficulties.
Clarinda, left alone in the tiny flat, knew something was wrong. Her day
was different. Her heart was wrong, and tears collected on her face many
times during the hours that went by. And she knew—why.
The trim little maid came and touched her upon the shoulder as she sat
cuddled in a corner of the divan. She was a Frenchwoman, with a white
frill about her head. A smile of pity was on her lips, as she kindly
touched Clarinda, and her hand was as light as the breeze without, as
Clarinda moved and looked up into her face.
“It is the little things in life, Madame, that count,” she said.
Clarinda shook her head in assent.
“I am miserable,” Clarinda replied.
Clarinda pushed back her golden hair from her forehead, wiped the tears
from her face, and arose from the divan. The maid left as she arose, and
went about her duties. She dusted with care and with careful hand
replaced the flowers in the vases with fresh ones.
Clarinda stood for a second in the middle of the room and then walked
slowly over to the window and looked pensively down upon the street. She
wondered if, in all her existence the maid had only dusted and swept, if
in all her existence she had ever worked for anyone who was as unhappy
as she was.
All during the day Clarinda did not smile, but wandered aimlessly from
one part of the apartment to the other, and she took no interest in the
maid nor in the fixing of things for the home-coming of the man. But
this day went like all the others—it glided by with a total indifference
to her or her unfortunate position.
Six o’clock came. The day’s work for many was over. As the clock on the
mantel chimed out the hour, the lower entrance door to the house opened
and then shut with a bang, and the man came bounding up the stairs with
the same haste he had always come. He threw the apartment door open and
launched his body into the room. His face was covered with smiles. He
was just as wonderful, just as strong as when he had gone from her in
the morning. Clarinda wondered that this could be so.
Clarinda looked at him and sighed. Her heart beat painfully, and her
breath came in deep short gasps. No, he did not kiss her. As he stopped
in the middle of the room and looked about him she went over to him and
laid her hand upon his shoulder. He still smiled.
“You forgot something this morning,” she said slowly as she looked up
into his face.
A quizzical expression went over him. He did not appreciate her sorrow.
“What?” he asked after quite a while.
“You don’t know?” she asked with astonishment.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “Was it my overshoes or my coat?”
The man jested with her, which added to the pain she had suffered during
the day.
“The maid knows—Peter.”
“The maid knows a great deal,” he answered.
“You don’t know? Oh, Peter! Peter!” she exclaimed, her voice full of
tragedy. “You have forgotten something even now.”
Peter pressed his hand against his forehead as if in deep thought, and
he let a light come into his eyes. He still jested with her. Of course
he knew. He took her slim fingers in his hand and led her over to the
divan.
“I know, I know,” he said, as if a great light had broken in upon him.
“What a foolish child you are.”
He took her gently in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Clarinda
smiled and tucked herself close in his arms.
“You won’t forget again, Peter?” she asked.
“No,” he replied with a shake of his head.