SOME PASSAGES FROM JOANNA SMYRTHWAITE'S LOCKED BOOK
The long drought broke at last in an afternoon and night of thunder and
scourging violence of rain, drowning out summer. A week of chill
westerly weather followed, lowering gray skies, a perpetual lament of
wind through the great woodland, combined with a soaking, misty drizzle
which forced the firs and pines into their blue-black winter habit and
rusted the pink spires of the heather. The flower-garden, dashed by
the initial downpour, became daily more sodden, its glory very sensibly
departed. Water stood in pools on the lawns. Leaves, dessicated by
the continuous sun-scorch, fell in dingy brown showers from the
beeches; and a robin, perching upon one of the posts of the tennis-net,
practised the opening, plaintively sweet notes of his autumn song.
On the Thursday evening of this wet week, Joanna Smyrthwaite went to
her room immediately after dinner, and, lighting the candles, sat down
at her bureau. The rain beat against the windows. She heard it drip
with a continuous monotonous tapping off the edge of the balcony on to
the glass and tile roof of the veranda below. She heard the
intermittent sighing sweep of the wind through the near trees, and the
wet sucking sob of it in the hinges and fastenings of the casements.
Nature wept, now petulantly, now, as it seemed, with the resignation of
despair; and Joanna, sitting at the bureau with her diary open before
her, listened to that weeping. It offered a fitting accompaniment to
her gloomy concentration and exaltation of mind.
"_August 29, 190-_
"I supposed that I should have received an answer to my letter in the
course of to-day at latest, but none has reached me," she wrote. "I am
not conscious of regretting the delay. The reply, when it does come,
can only confirm that which I already now know. I am no longer in
suspense, and I wait to receive the reply merely to prevent the
possibility of its falling into other hands than my own. That I could
not permit. Although it can modify neither my intention nor my
thought, it is mine, it belongs to me alone; and I refuse to allow the
vulgar curiosity of any third person to be satisfied by perusal of it.
I am sure that I do not regret the delay. It gives me time to reckon
with myself and with all that has occurred. It also gives me time to
test myself and make sure that I am not swayed by impulse, but that my
will is active and my reason unbiased by feeling. I am quite calm. I
have been so all day. For this I am thankful, although whether my
calmness arises from self-control or from physical incapacity of
further emotion I cannot decide. I do not know that the cause really
matters, yet I should prefer to believe it self-control."
Joanna paused, leaning upon her elbow and listening to the sobbing of
wind and rain.
"I suppose finality must always produce repose, however dreadful the
cost at which finality is obtained. Only so can I account for my
existing attitude of mind. I want, if I can, to put down clearly and
consecutively exactly what happened last night. I think it may be
useful to me in face of this period of waiting for the answer to my
letter; also, I wish to live through it again step by step. I have
learned very much during the last twenty-four hours. I have learned
that pain, self-inflicted pain, can be voluptuous. Even a few days ago
I should have been scandalized by such an admission. I am no longer
scandalized. Torture has emancipated me from many delusions and
overnice prejudices. I have not time now, even had I still
inclination, to be overnice.
"Margaret and Marion Chase dined in town and went to the theater with
Mr. Challoner last night. A London touring company is giving some
musical comedy at Stourmouth. When they returned I was still awake. I
had not taken any of the tabloids Doctor Norbiton gave me to procure
sleep. I did not care to sleep. I preferred to think. Margaret and
Marion remained some time upon the gallery laughing and talking rather
excitedly. They kept on repeating scraps of a frivolous song which
they had heard at the play; and of which, so Margaret told me
to-day--she apologized for the thoughtless disturbance they had
made--neither could remember the exact tune. Their voices and the
interest they evidently took in so senseless and trivial a thing jarred
upon me. I felt annoyed and resentful. Their behavior offered such a
startling contrast to my own trouble and to the whole tenor of my life
that I could not but be displeased by their light-mindedness. I felt
my own superiority. I did not attempt to disguise the fact of that
superiority from myself. I despised them. I may have done wrong in
despising them, but I did not care. The ambition to assert myself, in
some striking and forcible manner which should compel recognition not
only from Margaret and Marion, but from the whole circle of our
acquaintance, took possession of me. I have always shrunk from
publicity and been weakly sensitive to criticism and remark. I have
been disposed to efface myself. To rule others has been an effort to
me. Any influence I may have exercised has been exercised in obedience
not to inclination but to my sense of duty. Now I felt differently. I
felt my nature and intelligence had never found their full expression,
that the strength of my character had never fully disclosed itself. I
desired--I still desire--to manifest what I really am, of what I am
capable. I even crave after the astonishment and possible alarm such a
disclosure would create.
"Thinking steadily, I came to the conclusion this desire for entire and
arresting self-expression is not actually new in me. I saw that I have
always, implicitly though silently, entertained a conviction that the
opportunity for self-expression would eventually present itself. This
conviction has supported me under many mortifications. In the events
of the last six months that opportunity appeared in process of taking
tangible and very perfect shape. More than my imagination had ever
dared suggest was in process of being granted me. If I married
Adrian--"
Joanna raised her hand from the paper, or rather it raised itself, with
a jerk, refusing further obedience. She sat stiffly upright, listening
to the wind and the rain. The steady drip off the edge of the balcony
on to the roof below sounded indescribably mournful in its single,
muffled, reiterated note. Taken in connection with the words she had
just written, that mournfulness threatened her composure. The muscles
of her poor face twitched and her winged nostrils quivered, in her
effort to repress an outbreak of emotion. After a struggle she turned
fiercely to her open diary.
"If I married Adrian Savage," she wrote, "this, in itself, would bear
indisputable witness to the fact of my superiority, would justify me to
myself and command the respect of others. But, last night, I saw it
was necessary to go beyond that, and ask myself a question which, even
in my worst hours of doubt, I have never had sufficient fortitude to
ask myself before. I am anxious here to state positively that I did
ask myself the said question; and that I answered it deliberately and
calmly before certain things happened, which I shall presently set
down. If I did not marry Adrian--"
Again Joanna's hand jerked away from the paper, while every nerve in
her body was contracted by a spasm of almost intolerable pain. She put
her left hand over her heart, gasping, the agony for the moment was so
mercilessly acute. Yet, during that same moment, the old doting,
ecstatic expression overspread her face. In a sense she welcomed, she
gloried, in this visitation of pain.
"If I did not marry Adrian," she went on, "what then? The need for
self-justification, the need for entire self-expression, would in that
very dreadful event become more than ever desirable--the only solace,
indeed, which could remain to me. Therefore, what had better happen?
What--because I definitely and irrevocably willed it--must and should
happen? I answered the question last night, and my purpose has never
wavered. To-day I have spent some time in examining the stock
arguments against this purpose of mine. They do not affect my
determination, as I find that each one of them is based upon some
assumption which my reason condemns as unsound and inadequate, or which
is not applicable in my peculiar case. I know what I am going to do.
The relief of that knowledge was immediate. It continues to sustain
me."
Here Joanna rose and paced the room. She still wore the black silk and
lace evening gown she had worn at dinner. Her hair was dressed with
greater care than usual. Plain, flat-bosomed, meager, hard lines
seaming her cheeks and forehead, yet there was nothing broken or weak
in her bearing or aspect. Rather did she show as a somewhat tremendous
creature, pacing thus, solitary, the familiar and soberly luxurious
room, bearing with indomitable pride the whole realized depth and
height of her trouble--a trouble to the thought of which, even while it
racked her, she clung with jealous obstinacy as her sole possession of
supreme and splendid worth. Her restlessness being somewhat assuaged,
she went back and sat down to write.
"I do not attempt to account for what followed; I only set it down in
good faith and with such accuracy as my memory permits. My memory has
always been good, and, since now I have nothing left to gain or to
lose, I have no temptation either to invent or to falsify. About an
hour after Margaret and Marion Chase returned from the theater, and
without any intervening period of unconsciousness--my mind, indeed,
still occupied with the decision I had arrived at regarding my future
action--I found myself walking through the streets of some foreign
city. I was anxiously following a person of whose name and character I
was ignorant, but who I was aware had a message of great importance
which he needed to deliver to me, and to whom I felt an overpowering
wish to speak. He walked apparently without any particular destination
in view, yet so rapidly that I found it difficult to keep him in sight.
Being tall, however, and of fashionable appearance, he, fortunately for
me, was easily distinguishable from all other persons whom I met.
"I say, _I_--yet I am conscious, dreadfully, even infamously,
conscious, that throughout I shared this experience with a woman of
different antecedents, of a lower social position and inferior
education to myself. Our two personalities inhabited one and the same
body, for independent possession and control of which we contended
without intermission, sometimes I, sometimes she, gaining the
advantage. This association was very frightful to me. I felt soiled
by it. And, not only did I in myself feel soiled, but hopes, emotions,
aspirations which until now I had believed to be pure and elevated,
assumed a vile aspect when shared by this woman's mind and heart.
Still I knew that of necessity I must remain with her, continue to be,
in a sense, part of her, if I was to get speech of the man whom
I--we--followed, and to receive the message which he had to deliver.
"After long wandering through streets, some modern and reminding me of
Paris, others narrow, crooked, and lined with ancient houses, I came to
a small, formally laid-out pleasure garden in the center of the town,
dominated by a singularly beautiful Gothic building, probably a church.
Benches were placed at intervals round the garden along the shingled
paths, between massed shrubs and beds of heliotrope and roses. Upon
one of these benches, being overcome by fatigue and by a conviction of
unescapable fate, I sat down. So doing, I perceived that, at the far
end of the bench, the man whom I had so long followed already sat. His
attitude was expressive of extreme dejection. His figure was bowed
together. His elbows rested upon his knees, his hands were pressed
against the sides of his head. I felt drawn to him not only by a very
vital attraction, but by pity, for I could not doubt that, for some
cause, he had recently suffered severely, and was suffering severely
even now. I saw that this suffering blinded him to the outer things,
rendering him quite indifferent to or unaware of my presence.
Notwithstanding which, I--or she--the woman to whom my personality was
so horribly united--after making some vulgar efforts to arouse his
attention, began to speak to him, pouring forth, to my utter and
inextinguishable shame, a gross travesty of my love for Adrian Savage,
of my most secret thoughts and sensations in relation to that love, of
my joy in his presence, of my admiration for his talents, even for his
person, employing words and phrases meanwhile of a nature revolting to
me which outraged my sense of propriety and self-respect--words and
phrases which I was utterly incapable of using and of which I had never
indeed gauged the actual meaning until they passed her lips.
"A considerable time passed before the man gave any sign that he heard
what she--what I--said. He remained immersed in thought, his head
bent, his hands supporting it. At last--"
And Joanna closed her eyes, waiting for a space, listening to the
sobbing of wind and dripping of rain.
"--he looked round at me. His face," she wrote, "was that of Adrian;
but of an Adrian whom I had never seen before. It was worn and very
pale. There were blue stains beneath the eyes. All the gaiety, the
beautiful, self-confident strength and hopefulness were banished from
his expression, which was very stern though not actually unkind. Then
I knew that he had received and read my letter; that the marks of
suffering which he bore had been caused by the contents of my letter.
I knew that the message which he had to deliver to me, and to obtain
which I had followed him through the streets, forcing myself into union
with this vicious woman--in whose speech and actions I so dreadfully
participated--was nothing less than his answer to that letter.
"At last, looking fixedly at me, he said, very sadly: 'It is no use. I
do not want you. Poor woman, I do not want you. It is not possible
that I should ever want you. I am bitterly grieved for you; but you
waste your time.'
"As he spoke he placed some money in her hand, and, having finished
speaking, he rose and went away. Not once did he hesitate or look
back, but held himself erect and walked as a man whose decision is
deliberate. She clutched the money tightly, whimpering; but I had no
part in her tears. I had no disposition to cry then; nor have I had
any since. I understood what that piece of money meant. It was the
price of Adrian's freedom from my love. He paid me to go away.
"I remember noticing the fantastic carven stonework of the church
outlined against the night sky, while shame and despair devoured
me--shame and despair intimate, merciless, unmitigated. Still
clutching the piece of money, the woman got up. I do not know anything
more about her, what she did, or who she was, or where she went. For a
time, as far as I am concerned, the pulse of the world ceased to beat.
And then I lay here, at home, in my own room at the Tower House, and
heard the rain and wind in the trees just as I hear them to-night.
"When Isherwood brought me my tea, at half-past seven, she expressed
concern at my appearance. I told her I had not slept and that I felt
tired and faint. She insisted upon sending for Doctor Norbiton. I let
her do so. It was matter of indifference to me whether I saw him or
not. Nothing can change either facts or the event. But Isherwood has
always been kind and faithful to me. I did not want to hurt her by
opposing her wishes. Doctor Norbiton sounded my heart. He told both
Isherwood and Margaret it was in a weak state; but added that he
believed such mischief as exists to be functional rather than organic.
He recommended me to take the tabloids, which he gave me for insomnia,
sparingly, as their effect upon the heart is depressing. I listened
and agreed. Margaret expressed regret at my condition. She offered to
see Rossiter for me and spare me the trouble of housekeeping. I let
her do so.
"It has rained all day; but I have been fully occupied in going through
papers and accounts, and making sure that my own affairs and those of
the household are in perfect order. This almost mechanical work is
soothing. I have always been fond of accounts. I remain quite calm.
Why should I be otherwise? I know the truth, and have nothing left,
therefore, either to fear or to hope."
The following evening Joseph Challoner was due to dine at the Tower
House. Pleading a return of faintness and disinclination for
conversation, Joanna remained up-stairs in the blue sitting-room and
retired early to bed. The next entry in her diary reads thus:
"THE TOWER HOUSE, _August_ 30, 190-, 9 P.M.
"I let Isherwood undress me. I asked her for my white pleated
_négligé_, which I found she had sent to the cleaners' during the time
my hands were hurt and I had been obliged to give her my keys. I am
glad to wear it to-night. Isherwood was very kind and attentive to me.
I could almost think she suspected something, but I did what I could to
dissipate any suspicion she might entertain. I promised her I would
call her if I wanted her during the night; but all that I really needed
is quiet. This is perfectly true. I do need quiet, unbroken quiet.
"Still I must try to put down events in their proper order.--And first,
I feel it is only just that I should note how much I have thought of
papa during these last two very dreadful days. I have felt singularly
near to him in spirit and in sympathy. I know that I have rebelled
against his methods; and have both thought and spoken harshly of him.
I am sorry for this. I see now that, in his position and possessing
his authority, I should have acted as he did. He valued wealth as
lightly as I do; though he was interested in the acquisition of it.
Business to him was an occupation rather than an end in itself. He
craved for entire self-expression--as I have craved for it; and it was
impossible for him to find such expression in business. In public
affairs, economic or social reform, he might have found it; and to the
last, I believe, he hoped some opportunity of entire self-expression
would present itself. That, I think, was why he disliked the idea of
dying. He was ambitious of impressing himself upon the mind of his
generation in the manner he inwardly felt himself capable of doing. It
hurt and angered him to leave life with his personal equation
unrecorded. He knew himself--as I have known myself--to be superior to
others both in intellect and in the nature of his aims and ambitions.
He despised weakness. He despised what is common, trivial, ignorant.
He could not tolerate that those about him should run after cheap
pleasures in which the mind has no part.
"This morning, about twelve o'clock, the rain lessened. I ordered the
carriage and drove by myself to the West Stourmouth Cemetery. Leaving
the carriage at the entrance gates, I walked to his grave. The
cemetery is still but partially laid out. Patches of heather remain,
making the tombstones and monuments look bare and white. I am glad
papa's grave is on the highest ground. Standing by it, I saw, through
scuds of driving mist, the Baughurst Woods, sloping to the shore, and
beyond them the sea. The loneliness of this growing camp of the dead
was sympathetic to me. I am leaving instructions that I am to be
buried beside papa's grave, if not in it. I have never been so much of
a companion or help to any one as to him. He, at least, wanted me,
though he often frightened and wounded me. So I will go back to him in
death; and lie beside him in the rain, and snow, and wind, and sunshine
out there under the barren gravel of the moor.
"I received Adrian's answer to my letter by the six-o'clock post this
evening. I feared giving way to emotion on opening it; but I
experienced very little emotion. Of this I am glad. I am glad, too,
infinitely glad, that I determined what I would do before I so
strangely saw Adrian and spoke with him the night before last. If I
had not determined my state of mind would have been far more agonizing.
Calmness and self-respect would have been impossible. Margaret was
with me in the blue sitting-room when Edwin brought me my letters. I
do not know whether she observed that I received one from Adrian. I
fancy not. I waited until she had gone before reading it. It proved
just such a letter as I might have anticipated, written with every
intention of kindness. It exhibits his character in a very agreeable
light--affectionate, courteous, penetrated by regret on my account. He
does his utmost to spare my feelings and soften the blow he is
compelled to deal me. I appreciate all this. He praises my
intelligence, and points out to me, very gracefully, the advantages of
my education and of my wealth. He points out, too, the endlessly
varied interests of life. He admits that he has loved Madame St. Leger
for many years; and he reproaches himself deeply with not having spoken
to me about his affection for her when he stayed here in May, and when
I pressed him to tell me whether he was suffering from any anxiety in
which I could be helpful to him.
"That is the answer of the man of society, the well-bred man of the
world; the man, moreover, of sensibility and nice feeling. I quite
appreciate the tone and tact of his letter. But I had already received
the answer of the man himself. It was simpler, so simple as to need no
supplement--'It is no use. I do not want you. My poor woman, I do not
want you. It is not possible that I should ever want you. I am
bitterly grieved for you; but you waste your time.'
"_He has never wanted me. I have wasted my time._--That is all. And
assuredly that is enough, and more than enough? I will waste no more
time, Adrian. I will go where time, thought, love, and the rejection
of love are not.
"The rain has come back. It drips and drips upon the veranda roof. I
have burned all your letters. No one has ever seen or touched them
save myself. This volume of my diary I leave to you. I shall seal it
up, and direct it to you. At least read it--I am no longer ashamed. I
want you to know me as I really am. Life is already over. I am
already dead. So I am not afraid. I welcome the darkness of the
everlasting night which is about to absorb me into itself.--I wear the
white gown I wore the second time you kissed my hand.--I do not blame
you, Adrian. It is just as natural that you should not love me as that
I should have loved you. I understand that.
"And very soon now all my trouble will be over and passed. Soon I
shall sleep in the arms of the lover who has never failed man or woman
yet--in the arms of Death. JOANNA SMYRTHWAITE."