THE CRISIS
§ 1
WALKING amongst the trampled snow of the Ridgeway, it was difficult
for her to decide the significance of what had happened. It was not
easy to determine how far her passionate outburst had been a thing
of art and how far she had been unable to restrain it. Not that her
passion was in any sense unreal or artificial; but her aim had been to
excite his sympathies and she had succeeded so well that it was hardly
possible to regard her actions as entirely unpremeditated. There had
been such consummate artistry on her part that it seemed impossible
that for a single moment could she have entirely abandoned herself to
her feelings. Yet her tears had been thoroughly genuine, and she was
speaking the truth when she said that he had hurt her more than she had
ever been hurt before.
His attitude to her, too, was puzzling. She wanted to break down that
iron control which he held over himself. And she seemed as far away as
ever from doing it. His kiss had been a thing of careful precision.
She could feel the restraint he was imposing on himself and she could
discern also that he was capable of much greater restraints than
that. His kiss was not like the kiss she might have received had not
the porter pulled him down from the foot-board. Even now she was
instinctively conscious that that moment as the train was leaving
the platform at Cambridge represented the high-water mark of his
relationship with her. With all her efforts she had not induced in him
a repetition of that singularly rare mood of his. And now, moreover, he
was on his guard. The struggle would be epic.
She was gratified that he loved her. Though she knew how desperately
he would fight against submission to her, though she knew the great
intellectual and spiritual gulf between them which made him desire
above all things that he should retain his complete freedom and
independence, yet the mere fact that he loved her was capable of giving
her intense satisfaction. And once again she was terrifically jealous
of his wider interests and sympathies. She was utterly, inhumanly
selfish. She knew it, and it hurt her infinitely to know it, and to
know that he knew it. Some demon had entered her soul at birth and
dominated her ever selfishly, and try as she would she could not shake
it off. She could not repress her own miserable jealousies, her own
contemptible conceit, her own despicable selfishness. In her own heart
she knew that Verreker despised her, and that he had a right to do
so. All the joy of finding her love reciprocated was tinged with the
melancholy of realizing the rottenness of her own soul. There were
moments when she felt she was spiritually damned, that a canker was
eating at her soul which would leave her unworthy to live. And yet,
with more than a touch of hysteria, she consoled herself with the
thought that he loved her: she was abundantly, rapturously happy about
that, using it to mask the horror of her own soul, as one who dances
heartlessly on the very brink of destruction....
§ 2
It was New Year’s Day when she saw him next. He was walking down the
slope to Bockley Station, and she was coming up from one of the trains.
A dim presentiment of coming tragedy overswept her as she saw him
coming, so that, without knowing exactly why, she would not have
stopped of her own accord. But he insisted on stopping and shaking
hands, and wishing her a happy new year (a touch of sentimentality
which she was surprised to hear from him).
Even then a dim foreshadowing of something monstrously like destruction
impelled her to try to get away. She was surprised, awed at her own
instinctive impulse. She could not think what she had to be afraid of.
And yet she was afraid--terribly afraid. A black cloud was descending
upon her. She must get away from him at all costs.
But he insisted on detaining her.
“There was some fine skating on the High Wood pond last night,” he
said; and she said: “Was there?”
“Did you go up?” he asked; and she said: “No: I didn’t know there would
be any.”
“Can you skate?” he asked; and she said: “Not on the ice--only on
rollers.”
And he laughed and said: “You ought to learn--it is a fine exercise. I
expect there will be some more to-night if it doesn’t snow.”
And deep and dim within her was the awful premonition of doom. All
this small talk about skating and ice and snow brought the black cloud
almost to the level of her eyes.
Then he said: “By the way, I’ve a bit of news for you.”
She did not remember whether she enquired, “What is it?” or just
remained silent.
“Miss Trant and I are engaged to be married.”
“Is that all?” she said lightly. “I thought--oh, I thought--oh, well,
congratulations!”
“I have accepted a post at Harvard University in the States, and Miss
Trant and I are to be married very soon and take up our position there.”
“Still as your amanuensis?--she, I mean?”
“Yes--to a certain extent. Of course, I may have to employ a typist to
do the heavy work.”
“Of course.”
“I have never been to the States.”
“Nor have I.... I suppose they are ... very different.”
“Possibly.... I can recommend you to a good organizer, if you would
rather not manage for yourself.... Though I would recommend the latter.”
“Concerts, you mean?”
“Yes. Most organizers will want a big commission.... Why not do it
yourself? ... I believe in being independent....”
“So do I ... perhaps I will....”
“You ought to have a successful run in Scotland.... Of course, if you
should ever come to the States ... we should be pleased to see you....”
“Oh yes, I would certainly visit you. Let me see, did you say Harvard?
That’s Massachusetts, isn’t it?”
“Yes.... I’ll let you know the exact address when I know it ... my
train is signalled ... I am going up to town to arrange for a sailing
next month ... or the end of this....”
“Yes? ... is Helen quite well?”
“Very well ... she does not see much of you now ... but of course both
she and you are busy....”
“She will like the voyage ... she is a good sailor....”
“Oh?”
“Yes ... we once went to Yarmouth ... it was very rough ... but she was
all right....”
“That’s good ... my train ... well, I’ll write you the address.... I
wish you all success ... good-bye ...”
“Good-bye.”
Their hands met, clasped and unclasped, silently, meaninglessly.
The cloud broke and fell....
She climbed the slope on to the white highway....
Out in the High Road she boarded a passing tram, caring not whither
it was going. She climbed to the top deck, which was uncovered, and
sat on a seat that was filmed over with lately fallen snow. There was
nobody else on the top deck, and the conductor, when she tendered him
a penny without speaking, eyed her curiously. The car purred slowly
along the High Road, stopping at all the old familiar halting-places,
stopping sometimes because of men who were shovelling snow and slush
into the gutters. Every time it stopped she could hear the driver on
his platform beating his gloved hands together and swinging his arms
noisily across his chest. It was very cold, and the wind swept down
the wide High Road like a demon unchained. Overhead the trolley-wheel
screamed shrilly along the wires, and every time it passed the
supporting wire between the opposite tramway standards it gave a
sharp, excruciating sound--like a little kiss. At the Ridgeway Corner
there was a long wait, and the driver and conductor disappeared into a
coffee-house by the roadside. Far ahead the High Road stretched grey
and melancholy, with the snow and slush piled high along the gutters.
The tram-rails were running rivulets, and each passing car sprayed the
brown water over the roadway....
At High Wood the conductor climbed the steps and began turning the
handle to alter the destination board of the car. Then he swung down
the rope from the trolley-pole and said: “Don’t go beyond ’ere,
miss.... Git a bus if yer want ter go any further....” Catherine
clambered down. After all, she did not want to go any further. This was
High Wood; she was quite near home....
The path through the Forest to “Elm Cottage” was ankle deep in mud
and slush.... As she passed the clearing that was about half-way, she
saw that the sky was grey with falling flakes. He had said: “I expect
there will be some more skating to-night if it doesn’t snow.” But it
was snowing now. There would be no skating. It did seem a pity. So
many people would be disappointed.... She could see the smoke rising
sluggishly from the chimney-pots of “Elm Cottage.” The footpath to the
porch was white with untrodden snow....
In the drawing-room the first things she saw were the boxes of
cigarettes which she had bought because she knew they were his
favourite brand, and the Bach’s Fugue which she had learned because she
knew he would like to hear it.
She sat down on the fender rail in front of the fire without removing
any of her wraps. The fatness of a tear-off calendar on her bureau
annoyed her by its unaccustomedness. It was the first day of a new
year. The mantelshelf was stacked with Christmas and New Year cards,
chiefly from people she did not know....
Oh, well, she told herself, if I was wrong, then I was wrong.... If
he’s in love with Helen, then he’s in love with her. That’s all there
is to it.... Anyway, it’s the sort of thing that might happen to
anybody ... what’s happened to me, I mean....
She flung off her furs and muff on to the floor. Her feet were wet,
despite goloshes. She removed her shoes and put on slippers. Then, as
if impelled by a sense of duty, she picked up the furs and muff and
carried them to the piano, laying them on the closed sound-board....
She was just tired, physically, mentally and spiritually....
Even _she_ had realized the awful selfishness of her soul. It was
that which was hurting her far more than she knew. She could not quite
analyse her feelings. But Verreker’s attitude had made her terribly
conscious of her own inferiority. It hurt her to think that he despised
her. Her soul was rotten, there was no health in her.... There was
a sense in which Verreker’s engagement to Helen gave her a ray of
spiritual hope, even if it subjected her to fierce pangs of jealousy.
If he were in love with Helen and not with herself, that would
sufficiently explain his casualness towards her. And he could not,
presumably, help being in love with Helen.... Being in love with Helen
did not necessarily indicate that he despised _her_. She suddenly
realized that if she were convinced that he despised her all the hope
would vanish out of her life. His conviction of her unworthiness would
prove to her finally that her life was not, in the truest sense, worth
living. That he was not in love with her was a deep disappointment, a
bitter blow, beyond all doubt, but it was at most an accident. But that
he deliberately and calculatingly pierced the selfishness and baseness
of her, and despised her utterly from the depths of his being, she
could not bear to think of....
Fiercely she turned upon her inmost nature and examined it ruthlessly.
The spectacle was appalling. Her soul was eaten up with selfishness and
jealousy and conceit. Everything in her past life had been inspired
by one or other of these three leading motives. One or other of them
was the clue to nearly everything she had ever done, to nearly every
attitude she had ever adopted, to nearly every relationship that had
ever entered her life. Her escape from home, her episodes of friendship
with George Trant, all were evidences of her love of self. Her past
was strewn with the wreckage of things that could not live in the
atmosphere of her own spiritual avarice. And now her friendship with
Verreker had broken under the strain placed upon it. If he were in
love with Helen really and truly she could bear it. But if she thought
that he saw in her own soul all the rottenness that she could see,
the impulse to kill herself would be overmastering. Her father had
committed suicide....
All afternoon the snow fell steadily, and she stayed indoors and
debated how she might best re-create her soul. How she might drive
out from her being the demon of self. How she might open her heart to
pure, noble and unselfish motives. How she might rid herself of insane
jealousies. How she might become less conceited, less the egoist. How
she might build up in herself a real personality, strong, simple and
generous, something which would make life worth the living, even if all
other things were taken away. And how (God forgive her for thinking
this!)--how she might make herself more acceptable to Verreker, more
worthy in his eyes, more valued in his esteem. It meant tearing herself
to pieces. She declared that he had hurt her more than she had ever
been hurt before. It was so. She was hurting all over from his words
to her. But the surgical operation on her own soul would cost her more
still. The pain of it would be all the harder to bear because it would
be self-inflicted. She must stamp out ruthlessly what was ninetenths of
her.... And then beyond all the pain, in the sweet aftercalm, her soul
would be clean and passionately free....
That night she was playing at a concert in town. She played badly,
and as she left the platform she realized the fight that was in store
for her. Among the few things left which she dared to treasure was
her ambition as a pianist. It might be selfish and conceited, but she
felt that it was at any rate one of the most worthy parts of her.
And she saw that, come what might, she must not lower her standard
in that direction. Her fight to be a great pianist must be linked up
with her spiritual struggle for the cleansing of her soul. She went
home resolved that she would practise harder and more rigorously than
ever....