Here's where I'm in danger of going astray. I feel I must keep on
reminding myself of the circumstances--forgetting Helen herself and
thinking only of the case as it would be docketed in some psychologist's
bureau.... A woman, aged thirty-eight, married to a charming, clever,
and wealthy man who, owing to an accident, cannot move out of his chair.
Eight years ago she had an "affair" with a man seven years her junior,
upsetting his career and half-ruining his life altogether. Now, while
her husband passes his dull eventless days as best he can, she meets
this young man and amuses herself with him again....
It all sound pretty hopeless. And yet I can hear now her words, spoken
amidst the dreaming haze of that summer afternoon.... "I'm _not_ amusing
myself. I'm in earnest as I've never been before. I've been in earnest
ever since that night I told him the truth about Karelsky. Do you
remember how wrong we all were about him? June and you thought it would
do him harm to be told how he'd been swindled, and I thought it would do
him good--and we were all wrong, because it just hadn't any effect on
him at all! He didn't care--he was beyond things like money or fame....
There's something in him--something that makes him the sort of man he
is--something that draws me to him more than love. It _is_ more than
love.... I could have gone without him easily but for seeing that in
him.... Hilton, can't you realize? He's _straight_ and he's _true_, and
I've been living my life up to now with a man who laughs at straightness
and truth. Can't you imagine how it is--can't you _see_?"
I remember how I was silent, and how, touching my arm eagerly, she went
on: "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I haven't been very
straight and true myself.... But I _have_. I've been true to one man,
and that's all you can expect any woman to be. It isn't my fault that
the man I've been true to doesn't happen to be my husband.... He might
have been if _you_ hadn't interfered."
"If _I_ hadn't interfered?"
"Yes ... that's what I said."
"You mean, I suppose, that I'm to blame for persuading Terry to go to
Vienna?"
"Everything would have been different if you hadn't done so."
"You would have gone away with him?"
"Yes."
"And married him--after the divorce formalities?"
"Yes."
"And you really think that you'd have been willing to give up your life
of luxury to become the wife of a man whose yearly earnings would hardly
pay for your hats?"
"He would have earned more if I'd been with him."
"Perhaps a very little more. But double or treble would still have
seemed poverty to you."
"I wouldn't have cared.... You think I love money and luxury, but I
don't--it all means nothing to me, really. As for Geoffrey's money, it
gets on my nerves--I _hate_ it. Even now--in his chair all day
long--he's making more of it--buying and selling shares and speculating
and gambling and winning--yes, winning nine times out of ten. That's his
way--he's always found winning the easiest job in the world.... Yet
Terry can't even get the few paltry pounds he worked himself ill for!
Oh, it's all sickening and damnable, and I wish we were all naked
savages in a land where there wasn't such a thing as money.... I can't
bear to think of it--it makes me want to go wild and fly at somebody's
throat--anybody's--yours--Terry's--even Geoffrey's...."
I interrupted her then. I said quietly: "That's all very well, Helen,
but you would have cared--years ago--even if money doesn't matter to you
now. In fact, you _did_ care--and that was why, in my opinion, you
didn't go away with him when you had the chance. He was willing, but you
weren't.... I'm not blaming you, of course. But it's rather unfair of
you to suggest that it was I who stood in your way, when all the time it
was you yourself."
She stumbled forward a little, as if all her body had slackened. After a
pause she said slowly and not very distinctly: "If it's true--_even_ if
it's true--I couldn't help it...." It was as though she were pleading
for some sort of mercy. She continued more sharply: "How do you know all
this? Terry would never tell you anything, I know. Are you _really_
clever enough to see into me, or was it only a lucky guess? ... Oh,
things--_things_--as Terry used to say--what a curse they are when we
want to follow our heart's desire!" After another pause she recovered a
kind of cynical equanimity. "You were quite right," she said, "to smash
up my heroics. I'm rather worthless, I daresay.... I married Geoffrey
because he was able to give me all that a part of me craved
for--charming and cultured richness--you know the sort of thing.
Geoffrey always _was_ rich--even before he made any money; he had rich
ideas and loved rich things. Part of me married him for that, and I
never knew there was any other part of me till I met Terry.... You do
realize a little, don't you? I _know_ you do--I somehow _feel_ you
do.... Not that I care very much whether you do or don't. I've made up
my mind."
"For what?"
The abrupt question seemed to stir her. "I've made up my mind that--in
certain circumstances--I'll take the short cut to happiness."
"Short cuts are apt to be dangerous."
"Danger? Who cares for that? There comes a time when nothing--nothing at
all--counts but getting what you crave for."
"Well?"
"Would you condemn any woman to a whole life-time of wanting something
that she could get any moment by having the courage?"
"I don't know. I don't know quite what it is you're proposing to do."
She said then: "Everything depends on next week--on Geoffrey's
operation."
"How?"
She looked at me fearlessly. "I hope, for his sake and mine, that it's
successful. For if it is--if he's going to get better--then I shall
leave him."
"And if not?"
"Then--I suppose--I must just go on _wanting_...."