(_Eastlake refuses Miss Armstrong's last invitation, continues, and
concludes_.)
Last night was given to me for insight. You were brilliantly your best,
and set in the meshes of gold and precious stones that the gods willed
for you. There was not a false note, not an attribute wanting. Over
your head were mellow, clear, electric lights that showed forth coldly
your faultless suitability. From the exquisitely fit pearls about your
neck to the scents of the wine and the flowers, all was as it should
be. I watched your face warm with multifold impressions, your nostrils
dilate with sensuousness, appreciation, your pagan head above the
perfect bosom; about you the languid eyes of your well-fed neighbors.
The dusky recesses of the rooms, heavy with opulent comfort, stretched
away from our long feast. There you could rest, effectually sheltered
from the harsh noises of the world. And I rejoiced. Each minute I saw
more clearly things as they are. I saw you giving the nicest dinners in
Chicago, and scurrying through Europe, buying a dozen pictures here and
there, building a great house, or perhaps, tired of Chicago, trying
your luck in New York; but always pressing on, seizing this
exasperating life, and tenaciously sucking out the rich enjoyments
thereof! For the gold has entered your heart.
What splendid folly we played at Sorrento! If you had deceived yourself
with a sentiment, how long would you have maintained the illusion? When
would the morning have come for your restless eyes to stare out at the
world in longing and the unuttered sorrow of regret? Ah, I touch you
but with words! The cadence of a phrase warms your heart, and you fancy
your emotion is supreme, inevitable. Nevertheless, you are a practical
goddess: you can rise beyond the waves toward the glorious ether, but
at night you sink back. 'Tis alluring, but--eternal?
Few of us can risk being romantic. The penalty is too dreadful. To be
successful, we must maintain the key of our loveliest enthusiasm
without stimulants. You need the stimulants. You imagined that you were
tired, that rest could come in a lover's arms. Better the furs that are
soft about your neck, for they never grow cold. Perchance the lover
will come, also, as a prince with his princedom. It will be comfortable
to have your cake and the frosting, too. If not, take the frosting; go
glittering on with your pulses full of the joys, until you are old and
fagged and the stupid world refuses to revolve. Remember my sure word
that you were meant for dinners, for power and pleasure and excitement.
Trust no will-o'-the-wisp that would lead you into the stony paths of
romance.
Some days in the years to come I shall enter at your feasts and watch
you in admiration and love. (For I shall always love you.) Then will
stir in your heart a mislaid feeling of some joy untasted. But you will
smile wisely, and marvel at my exact judgment. You will think of
another world where words and emotions alone are alive, where it is
always high tide, and you will be glad that you did not force the
gates. For life is not always lyric. Farewell.