XLI

Gora was looking her best in a smart spring frock of brown tweed with a

drooping red feather on her hat, whose pointed brim almost but not

quite obscured one eye. The two women greeted each other with

something like affection, and after the usual feminine preliminaries

were over, Gora exclaimed with enthusiasm:

"I have come to tell you how really wonderful Lee's play is, and to say

that I could have shaken him for not letting you hear it, but he seems

determined that it shall burst upon you in the unmitigated glory of a

first-night performance."

Madame Zattiany smiled, very slightly. "Yes, he made a great point of

that. I could only let him have his way. He is very fond of having

his way, is he not?"

"Well, we've spoiled him, you see. And those of us who have heard the

play are more excited than we have been over anything for a long time.

Those that haven't are not far behind. I believe there is a dinner or

a party in his honor projected for every night for weeks to come."

Madame Zattiany raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Isn't it

rather unusual, that--to fête an author before he has made his débût?"

"It is, rather. But in this case it's different. We've waited so long

for Clavey to do the big thing that we must let off steam at once."

"He certainly seems to be a tremendous favorite among you. Several of

his friends were here at dinner the other night--I was so sorry you

were unable to come--and really they seemed to be able to talk of

nothing else. They are all very charming to me now, but I am wondering

if they will be more than amiably interested in me when I am merely the

wife of a famous playwright?"

"Oh, you must do something yourself," said Miss Dwight emphatically.

"I am sure you could write. And equally sure that you will try, for

you could not live constantly with such workers as we are without being

stung by the same busy little bee. You have suggested genius to me

from the first, and I am convinced it is not merely the genius of

personality. Your life has stifled your talents, but now is the time

to discover them and take your place in American letters."

"I had thought such talents as I possessed should be used in the

attempt to play a humble part in the reconstruction of Europe,"

murmured Madame Zattiany; and one of her beautiful white hands moved

toward the cigarette box with a curious tensing of the muscles that

seemed to rob it subtly of its likeness to flesh. Nothing escaped Miss

Dwight's observing eye, and she replied casually: "Oh, Europe isn't

worth the effort, dear Madame Zattiany. It's too far gone. The future

of the world lies here in the United States. New York is the brain and

soul of the United States. Moreover, if you want to help Europe, you

can write about it here, be the one to give us all a clearer

understanding of that miserable chaos."

"But I detest writing," said Madame Zattiany, who was lying back and

watching her smoke rings. "I like the activity of doing, and I have

had an experience that particularly fits me for political intrigue. If

this were Washington, now----"

"Oh, Washington! Washington is merely one of the islands outside of

New York. So is Chicago, Boston, the rest of them. . . . And don't

imagine you would not become fascinated with writing as soon as you

were in your stride. Here is a simple recipe to begin with. Get up

every morning with the set intention of writing and go to your desk and

sit there for three hours, whether you accomplish anything or not.

Before long you will find that you are writing madly, not waiting for

inspiration. And you will have Clavey to criticize you. The rest is

only stern self-discipline. Here is another suggestion: when you have

brain fag go to bed for two days and starve. The result is miraculous."

"So, that is the way American writers are made. There are so many of

them--I had often wondered----"

"Oh, not at all!" Miss Dwight rushed to the defence of native American

genius. "But all writers, no matter what their gifts, often go through

a period of torture while forming habits of regular work."

"It sounds like torture!" She gave Gora a glance of lazy amusement.

"Really, Miss Dwight! Are you trying to frighten me off?"

But Gora did not blush. If she chose to concentrate her agile mind on

acting, the accomplished actress opposite could give her few points.

She replied with convincing emphasis: "Certainly not. What an odd

idea. I have the most enormous respect for your abilities, and you

should be famous for something besides beauty--and I should like to see

you live down mere notoriety."

"I've loved the notoriety, and rather regret that it seems to have lost

flavor with time. But I'll never make a writer, Miss Dwight, and have

not the least intention of trying."

"But surely you'll not be content to be just Lee's wife? Why,

practically every woman in our crowd does something. There used to be

a superstition that two brain-workers could not live comfortably under

the same roof, but as a matter of fact we've proved that a woman keeps

her husband far longer if her brain is as productive as his. Each

inspires and interests the other. Another old _cliché_ gone to the

dust bin. Our sort of men want something more from a woman than good

housekeeping. Not that men no longer want to be comfortable, but the

clever women of today have learned to combine both."

"Marvellous age and marvellous America! Don't you think I could keep

Lee interested without grinding away at my desk for three hours every

morning and lying in hungry misery for days at a time?"

"You could keep any man interested. I wasn't thinking of him, but of

you. He has more than a man's entitled to already. Men are selfish

brutes, and I waste no sympathy on them. It's women who have the

rotten deal in this world, the best of them. And men are as vain as

they are selfish. It's an enormous advantage for a woman to have her

own reputation and her own separate life. No man should be able to

feel that he possesses a woman wholly. He simply can't stand it."

"Quite right. Discarding modesty, I may add that I am an old hand at

that game."

Gora regarded her with frank admiration, wholly unassumed. "Oh, you

couldn't lose Clavey if you tried. He is mad about you. We can all

see that, and I knew it before he did himself. It's only--really--that

I'm afraid you'll be bored to death with so much shop if you don't set

up one for yourself."

"Oh, I never intend to be bored again as long as I live." Mary

Zattiany was a very shrewd woman and she determined on a bold stroke.

Her suspicion lingered but had lost its edge. Gora Dwight was deep and

subtle but there was no doubt that she was honorable. "I shall tell

you something," she said, "but you must give me your word that you will

not betray me--not even to Lee."

Miss Dwight's mind, not her body, gave a slight stir of uneasiness.

But she answered warmly: "Of course I promise."

"Very well, then. It is this. I shall never return to America. I

sail in a fortnight. Lee follows soon after, and we shall be married

in Austria."

"But--but--his play!" Miss Dwight was too startled to act. "He must

be here for rehearsals. Some one has said that plays are not written,

they're rewritten, and it's pretty close to the truth."

"I shall consent to his returning in time for rehearsals. Prolonged

honeymoons are indiscreet. It is better to divide them into a series.

I fancy the series might hold out indefinitely if adroitly spaced.

Moreover, being a modern myself, I like new methods. And he will be

too busy to miss me. I shall be equally busy in Vienna."

"But will he consent? Lee? He's not used to having his plans made for

him. He's about the most dominating male I know."

"I feel sure he will when the time comes. It is woman's peculiar gift,

you know, to convince the dominating male that he wants what she wants."

Gora laughed. But she also could turn mental somersaults. "I think it

a splendid arrangement. Then we should not lose Lee altogether, for we

really are devoted to him. He is an adorable creature for all his

absurdities. But I can't endure the thought of losing you."

"You must pay me a long visit in Vienna. Many visits. I can assure

you that you will find material there, under my guidance, for a really

great novel."

Gora's eyes sparkled. She was all artist at once. "I should like

that! How kind of you. And what a setting!"

"Yes, Austria is the most interesting country in Europe, and the most

beautiful to look at--and describe."

"It will be heavenly." Gora made up her mind at once that she would

waste no more ingenuity to stop this marriage. Its modernity appealed

to her, and she foresaw new impulses to creation. "The American

Scene," conceivably, might grow monotonous with time; and with these

daily recruits bent upon describing its minutiae with the relentless

efficiency of the camera. And with all her soul she loved beauty.

With the possible exception of Bavaria she knew Austria to be the

darling of nature.

Once more she chose to believe this woman would manage Clavering to his

own good, and to the satisfaction of his friends, who, as she well

knew, were alarmed and alert. They were too polite to show it, but

much of their enthusiasm for Madame Zattiany had dimmed with the

knowledge that she was a scientific phenomenon. Fundamentally the

brilliant creative mind is quite as conservative as the worldly, or the

inarticulate millions between, for they have common ancestors and

common traditions. They feared not only to lose him, moreover, but had

begun to ask one another if his career would not be wrecked.

Miss Dwight concluded that such an uncommon and romantic marriage might

be a spur to Clavering's genius, which might weaken in a conventional

marital drama set in the city of New York.

She rose and for the first time kissed Madame Zattiany. "It will be

too perfect!" she said. "Let me visit you in summer when he is

rehearsing. He can arrange to have his first-nights in September, and

then write his next play in Austria, filling his time while you are

absorbed in politics. Heavens, what a theme! Some day I'll use it.

Perfectly disguised, of course."

"And I'll give you points," said Mary, laughing. She returned the

other's embrace; but when she was alone she sighed and sank back in her

chair, without picking up her book. Miss Gora Dwight had given her

something to think of! The last thing she wanted was a serial

honeymoon. She wanted this man's companionship and his help. But she

had slowly been forced to the conclusion that Clavering's was a mind

whose enthusiasms could only be inspired by some form of creative art;

politics would never appeal to it. In her comparative ignorance of the

denaturalized brain, she had believed that a brilliant gifted mind

could concentrate itself upon any object with equal fertility and

power, but she had seen too much of the Sophisticates of late, and

studied Clavering in too many of his moods to cherish the illusion any

longer. Playwrighting seemed to her a contemptible pastime compared

with the hideous facts of Life as exemplified in Europe, and she had

restrained herself from an angry outburst more than once. But she was

too philosophical, possibly too fatalistic, not to have dismissed this

attitude eventually. Clavering could not be changed, but neither could

she. There would be the usual compromises. After all, of what was

life made up but of compromise? But the early glow of the wondrous

dream had faded. The mistress was evidently the rôle nature had cast

her to play. The vision of home, the complete matehood, had gone the

way of all dreams.