conversation, it held his attention. He opened his eyes. Near the
fireplace at the other end of the room, on a large divan and leaning far
back into it, sat a blond young man, his legs crossed. In spite of his
careless attitude, Martin was conscious of the earnestness with which
the other regarded him. Fully aware of Martin’s observation the man
continued to look at him squarely. At last he sat straighter, brushed his
hair into place with a sweep of his hand and gave Martin an unusually
provocative smile. Its good nature was genuine, but Martin kept to his
own melancholy and somber stare. He had never seen a man with such
apparent knowledge of his blood and caste, nor one so youthfully wise.
Altogether, Martin saw in him a weathered, inbred prototype of himself,
an experienced apprentice. It was the soil, the rash, the water Martin
needed; and he continued to stare like a child absorbed. It was not until
the young man turned to his companion that Martin realized that a woman
as individual—more quickly individual, held his strange friend’s arm.
Under Martin’s continued gaze she placed her other hand upon the blond
man’s sleeve and looked up at him questioningly.
In the half-light of the room Martin could see her profile—could feel the
intensity of her womanhood; and it caused him to forget, momentarily,
her companion. Holding her throat that way, the way her breast rose
under her satin gown, the unnatural silver in her dark hair caused
Martin to speculate—to wonder at his own abreaction. He felt awkward
and indecisive, yet withal, an inconsiderate urge and tightness under
his collar. He could scarcely restrain himself from walking over and
speaking. But he stayed quiet instead, and felt hot and cold at each
thought, and finally decided he would just go away from sheer itching.
When at last the woman did turn to look at him he continued to stare at
her for a moment the same way he had done with the young man. Then he
found that his thoughts were going down the satin dress to the slim waist
and hips that seemed to be moving under his watery eyes, and down at last
to her stockings.
“It isn’t her legs,” he thought. “It’s her stockings and every damnable,
secret place they lead to.” Looking up again he saw her young clear lips,
tattooed; and, he imagined, caps of equally bright color under her dress.
Her eyes were the most beautiful of all of her, and yet the worst; for
Martin, in amazement that they should translate his idiom so perfectly,
felt that they were turning him inside out so that each thought and
desire could be read plainly. However, there was something else about the
woman that made him want to go away, or come, or do anything as long as
it was she who sent him away, or took him in.
“I’m mad,” he said. “She’s nothing but a brood-mare. A wild, teasing
brood-mare stamping for me. But I wish I had her in the grass where she
should lie.” And he turned his flushed, wet face toward Roberts who was
approaching.
“At whom are you looking?” asked the adviser, suspicion in his tone.
“I was watching,” Martin answered.
“Where are you looking?” persisted the adviser.
“I believe I should go home,” said Martin briefly.
Roberts looked around in the direction of Martin’s stare and smiled
without amusement.
“Come along,” he said, sighing and taking his friend by the arm. “Either
one was inevitable, I suppose.”
Without answering, Martin walked with him to the couch where the young
man and his companion were sitting.
“I want you both to know Martin,” said Roberts. “He was just going home
on account of you. I wonder what he meant, Deane,” he continued, ignoring
the young man who stood up, smiling unconcernedly. “What did he mean,
Drew?” he asked, this time of the man; and without waiting for an answer,
sat down rather sulkily, peering from under his eyelids at Deane as
though he was displeased, for Martin and Drew had moved a short distance
away from the divan and had begun to talk together.
Deane looked at Roberts with understanding, her brilliant lips open, her
cool, dark eyes filled with indulgence.
“Your friend looks interesting enough,” she said. “Why does he upset
you? Isn’t he your protegé? Dear Ella,” she glanced toward the hostess,
“intimated as much.”
“Damn her fat tongue,” said Roberts. “But,” he continued wearily, “I wish
he were, Deane. I’m part of him and he doesn’t know it—or pretends not
to. I gave him a rotten job. A job full of grit and lead and ashes and he
won’t—he won’t——”
Deane seemed a little contemptuous.
“No?”
Roberts shook his beautiful head and turned away despairingly.
“A young girl in her first romance,” said Deane, speaking now with an
undertone of anger.
“You only think me so,” went on the adviser, still desperate. “But I’ve
waited for this a thousand years and it goes in one bleak night to my one
dear friend,” he looked up at Drew who was still standing before Martin,
“or,” he ended bitterly, glancing once more at the woman beside him, “to
you. I tell you, I know him, Deane. I saw it in his eyes. He was watching
you so. I never saw him watch me that way. Never!”
Deane looked at him in amazement.
“You?” she cried. “Watch _you_?”
Roberts, observing her, sat straighter, became more haughty.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “He never looked that way at me. And _I’m_ mad
because of necessity and not an empty wish! It’s the bone of me—it’s my
flesh and the rancor of centuries!” He stood up, trembling.
“Drew!” he called commandingly. He was white, beautiful and Satanic in
his rage.
Drew started, looked around at him and the two young men stepped nearer.
“Roberts!” cried Drew in consternation.
But the adviser merely waved his hand.
“Roberts!” said Martin slowly. His eyes half closed, and in the space
where the iris showed came a harsh light as if misdirected robots were
moving behind the lashes. His face, still burned by the sea, became
intent. It was as though he were concentrating upon a floating object.
Motile, sensitive lines drew around the corners of his eyes and turned
from rust to white. Under this stare, Roberts faltered in his attitude
of severity; and wheeling suddenly, without excuse, his hands half out,
walked swiftly across the room to the buffet where he stood, leaning one
arm upon it.
Deane sat quietly, watching Martin. There was now a look of contempt upon
his face. It formed about the fine cheeklines, which by themselves seemed
to curl until the face solidified and grew articulate with sour flutes of
madness. He took a step toward Roberts and Drew caught him by the arm.
“What is it, Martin?” he asked. “In heaven’s name, don’t look that way!
Be careful! Everyone is watching you. Stay here with us!”
Abruptly, Martin sat down with Deane, so close that she could feel him
tremble. She looked up quickly at Drew, who nodded, and with a brief,
inscrutable smile, left them and went to Roberts.
As he waited for Roberts to speak, there was a tactfulness and grace
about him which the adviser could not evade.
“Drew,” he said at last, “listen to me. It’s dreadful.” He paused to look
steadily at his friend. “I can’t work without thinking about him. I can’t
eat. It’s a damnable obsession! And to think!—with such a shameful lad!”
Drew appeared listless.
“Is that the word, Roberts?”
“It’s the smallest I can think of.”
Drew took a purple flagon containing a cordial from the buffet, holding
it so that he might find its color from the room’s dim light.
“No,” he said, “‘shameful’ is not the word. Rather I should say,” he
hesitated, “‘shameless.’”
Roberts regarded him carefully.
“What is your interpretation of that word?”
“The usual one,” said Drew slowly. “A lacking of, Roberts. Not a
diverting of.”
“You think then, that he has no moral sense at all,” said Roberts, as
though in agreement.
Drew tilted the flagon, observing the changing violet lights as the
clear, thick drops of the liqueur ran individually down the neck of the
bottle.
“It isn’t this important, dear,” he said. “It _can’t_ be this important.”
He was still observing the flagon. “Do you know this amazing drink?” he
asked. “It comes from a small flower that grows only in the Bavarian
Alps, and at an altitude of between four and five thousand feet. This
very discriminating blossom is called the ‘blue dormant.’ ... A boy once
pointed out to me the place where they grew,” he said reflectively.
“Oh! Damn you, Drew!” said Roberts miserably. “Answer my question. You’ve
often told me that you, yourself, were unmoral, not immoral—are you
drawing a likeness?”
Drew replaced the Gebirge Enzian and faced Roberts, sincerity in his
voice.
“You were terribly upset and I chatted a bit. That’s all. I don’t even
know what I said, and I don’t believe you meant what you said.”
“Oh, I do.” Roberts nodded his head grimly. “Indeed I do. Look over
there.” He motioned slightly in the direction of Martin and Deane who
were speaking intimately with each other. “Do you see that, my love?”
he went on contemptuously. “As catching as flypaper and as promiscuous.
And yet I can’t help myself. The very way he looks at Deane puts arrows
into me.” Suddenly Roberts’ eyes filled with tears, and half choking, he
turned from the guests and from Ella, who was hovering nearby and who
seemed frightfully amused. Instinctively, Drew stepped close to him, his
protective shadow encircling the bent shoulders of his friend, hiding the
quiet sob.
* * * * *
When Drew had gone to Roberts, Deane placed her hand on Martin’s for a
moment, then withdrew it gently, without speaking.
“It was a kiss,” thought Martin. “She’s bringing me across the river....
A proud woman, with her hair like the lights of a ship.... A woman
sheltered, but one inalienable to love.... I wish she’d smile again....
God help me! She’s on my trail like a hound! I might as well have spoken
through a trumpet.” Turning toward her he said, “I really shouldn’t have
come here. I feel out of place. But,” he hesitated, “I thought that it
might be ... and it is,” he added shortly.
Deane started to touch him again, then stopped, for Martin looked so
eager and shy that she became the same way.
“Damn it!” thought Martin. “What a trip!” ... “Well,” he said aloud, “it
shouldn’t have been.”
Deane laughed softly. Martin could see the black diagonal stripes across
her red kid slippers and this cabalistic signal took his thoughts
back wantonly to the Church where so often as a child he had released
his theological rut into the dark precipices of the Cathedral. Those
fearfully sweet memories came sharply into his mind now and he remembered
how the vast, swelling notes of the organ had lifted him up and rocked
him into peacefulness. Nostalgia overcame him as he continued to gaze at
the little red and black slippers. Then he grimly blocked these crevices
of the mind which exude a flavor too ghastly even for the pith and stench
of the undersoul, and he spoke again, this time without thought or
conception.
“I mean,” he said, “that for a long time the parties I’ve gone to have
been so apart from this sort of thing—that is, apart dimensionally. The
people were plain and simple. There were rivers, mostly yellow, and
bushes and trees to lend informality, and all the music came out of
parrots. Once, along such a river-path, I met a man with a nose as broad
as my fist. His dark skin had such heavy needlework upon it that it was
beveled like tooled leather. His feet splayed like a water-creature’s.
We couldn’t speak each other’s language, but we both understood food. It
made us friends. We had mashed rice, water, and some kind of grape he’d
brought out of the forest over his shoulder.” Martin stopped abruptly at
Deane’s curious look.
“I’m sure there was that and more in the tropics, Martin,” she said
deliberately. “There was the Right Honorable Lord Jesus stamping through
the jungle.”
Martin, embarrassed and yet amused, looked steadily at Deane.
“Such things can, and should be reduced,” he said. “I’d have been
impatient, myself.” He hesitated, unable to keep from staring at the
soft line of her throat where each shadow lay like a bruise upon her
skin. This intimation of her feeling for light, of limbs too tender, made
him lift his intense eyes to her own which were even more brilliant.
“Please,” he continued, “will you please let me take you home?”
Now, Deane saw him differently, with more excitement. What an enigma!
And what a charming transition from his faint braggadocio (or was it!)
to this straightforward question. She knew that he was waiting for an
answer, yet she was silent. Silent while they kept turning their heads
to reassure each other like naughty children in the cool green brush
and willows by a railroad track. They knew. They understood completely;
and Martin, in this Roman anticipation, shivered; and when at last they
did stand up to separate only for a moment they still seemed to cling
together helplessly. Once, as they crossed the floor, Martin paused,
and Deane, aware of his intention, went on alone. She disappeared into
the hallway, and the sight of her sweet entirety, her gown, the thought
beneath it made Martin caustic and erect. Only then did he look around to
see that Drew and Roberts were observing him. As he came up to them, Drew
greeted him warmly, but Roberts held his face away.
“We were talking of compassion,” said Drew, smiling. “It takes sophistry,
Martin.” He turned to his other friend. “Isn’t that true, Roberts?” he
asked.
“It takes common sense,” said the adviser.
“It takes that, too,” said Martin. “It takes sophistry and common sense
and a hundred other things. But I prefer to leave it to the Giver.”
“Right,” said Roberts angrily. “It takes the god-damned miserable Giver!”
Then more softly, “Deane Idara is a remarkable woman, Martin. You realize
that she has recently suffered a severe shock?”
“No! A shock, you say?”
Roberts’ eyes shone above the sudden pallor of his cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “She lost her husband only a very short while ago.”
“Why did you tell me that?” asked Martin rapidly. He tried to quiet
himself, but he bit his lip and looked at Drew rather wildly. “I
understand death. I too have died. I too have seen intimate death.” The
phosphorus shone again in his eyes. “Cowardly remark!” he said under his
breath.
The adviser seemed to draw within himself, growing even more pale. He
spoke sarcastically.
“Do you mean that you, too, Martin, have lost a husband?”
Martin glanced again at Drew who was standing motionless, expressionless,
then back at Roberts. He could scarcely move his lips.
“I’m going home,” he said. “Goodnight, Drew. And goodnight, Roberts.”
“Goodnight,” Drew answered, holding out his hand to detain the adviser
who was automatically following. “Goodnight, Martin,” Drew called
after him again. Then, “Roberts!” he whispered uneasily, still holding
his friend’s arm. “You don’t have even the foundation! _Won’t_ you be
sensible?”
* * * * *
Deane Idara was standing at the door. Martin’s shadow fell across her
face and they left the apartment. Outside, the air was high and pointed
with light. Crisp new stars whizzed over them, brightening the street.
Martin could feel her arm get tighter and tighter, and his own breath
became heavier until in the darkness between corner-lamps he swung her
round to him and kissed her cold little wet lips. With his arms around
her and the feel of her lips becoming warmer under his, he whispered,
“I’ll kill you. Oh, by God!—I’ll kill you, I love you so!” And then he
kissed her again until he felt himself just going away as he had thought
he would. Deane was pressing as tightly as she could against him, but her
head seemed to fall back too loosely and Martin kept saying, “I’ll get a
taxi, dear. I’ll get a cab.” He waved at several until one stopped, and
after they had climbed inside he pulled Deane to him and asked, “Where
are we going, dear?” She kissed him, and Martin could feel her breath on
his cheek. The cab driver slumped down in his seat indifferently and lit
a cigarette. “Where are we going, Deane?” Martin asked again.
“Not far,” she answered, nodding to him feverishly. “Tell him to drive up
the street. It’s one sixty-nine....”
Her apartment was dim and motionless. A long window faced the line of
city buildings. Martin and Deane stood before it, breathing the soundless
air. In this black and white panorama he felt indistinct, separate from
his identity. He had removed his topcoat and he imagined he could feel
Deane’s skin against his, so tight was her black gown. They stood by the
window, holding each other in a sensuous embrace of expectation—of change
of clime. Then he thought of her stockings and her sacramental slippers.
They were furiously beautiful and revealing against the rug. Martin put
his hand within her blouse and held it there while she pressed closely to
him. He unslipped a button, then another, and another. “I’ve buck fever,
Deane,” he whispered hoarsely.
Deane shook her hair, her eyes blazing.
“You helpless bastard,” cried Martin to himself.... “Let’s break it,
Deane,” he whispered to her once more. “Let’s break it completely,” and
he pulled the loosened gown from her white shoulders. “And here’s mine,”
he went on, continuing the motion until his opened shirt and singlet were
flat against her breast. “We’ll call it the wild black clogs of Belgium,
dearest,” and he clenched his hard brown arms around her waist. Without
speaking further he took her hand and led her into the adjoining room.
He sat down on the gray paneled bed, pulling her surely beside him.
Deane saw the slight trembling of his lips and the heavy expression of
his eyes which stirred her with an intoxication that was close to fear.
She was drawn by the swift pace of his emotion, yet held back by the
certainty of his demand. Even as she was thinking, the rapid heartbeats
against her became more rapid and the pressure of Martin’s hands brought
so definite a response that all vaporous abstractions were forgotten and
she knew herself in an immediate physical presence. Wanting Martin as
she did, the knowledge of his action brought no idle gestures; and she
was quiet, with eyes half closed as she felt herself lifted, then rested,
with Martin’s arm for a pillow. Infinitesimal beads of moisture formed
on Martin’s temples as his hand caught the rim of her stocking, but the
warm, soft flesh above it made him cry out softly. The very lights seemed
tenderer and the very shadows kinder as these two lovers held each other.
The night was penetrated by a question, by a sob; and all the cruelties
and perversions of humanity were justified by this union—natural,
unashamed and magnificent in simplicity and passion.
_CHAPTER VII_
Roberts waited near the printing plant the following afternoon. When
Martin came out he went swiftly to him, holding out his hand. There was
haggardness and strain—a formation of new lines in Roberts’ face.
“I could hardly wait till you were through work to-day, Martin,” he
said anxiously. “I have been terribly distressed over last night. I
feel that it was my mistake—entirely my mistake. I was overminded by my
zealousness—or,” he hesitated, “by my jealousy. You know how I feel about
you. You do know, don’t you?”
Martin, following his emotion, rather than the outposts of his mind which
usually warned him, was drawn to Roberts by this speech, so painful and
revealing.
“For God’s sake, Roberts,” he said, “there wasn’t any mistake. But if
there is anything deserving such a name, we’ll forget my fault, and
yours.”
Roberts sighed with relief.
“Then you _will_ forgive your old mother?” he asked contentedly.
“I forgive myself and you,” repeated Martin.
Roberts did not hear, or hearing, did not understand. A strong
impression of brotherhood made his hands tremble. A feeling of careless
happiness exhilarated him. The vision grew clearer and his heart tried
gallantly to keep pace with his mind’s picture of the Affinities,
striding hand in hand against the foolish tide of intolerance and
misunderstanding. He took Martin’s arm and started down the street, a new
freedom in his eyes.
“We are going to have dinner together to-night, Martin.”
“I’m sorry, Roberts, but I have an engagement.”
Roberts laughed.
“Oh, you’ll come, all right!” He swung on to Martin’s arm. “We’ll have
the most glorious dinner of our lives. We’ll put the table by the radio
and have our sherry with Bach—yes, with Bach. But you may have Delius
with your Chablis.” He shook his finger in Martin’s face and laughed
again. “I warn you, however, our Benedictine will call for Wagner! The
renegade!—The impious Pretender! We’ll swing his stomach like a bell over
our Benedictine.”
Martin’s cheeks were sucked in. He seemed ready to laugh but his eyes
were shaded.
Roberts, still chuckling, glanced at him carelessly in his merriment and
was astonished.
“Martin!” he cried.
“I’m sorry. Some other time I’d like to. But to-night, I can’t come.”
Rage, a positive hatred, shook the adviser. Words of reproach and
anger were about to be spoken when he was deterred by the same quality
in Martin’s face that had quieted him before. This time, even in his
shame, he tried to analyze the reason—to connect and precipitate
Martin’s features into the symbol that stopped his fury. He felt that
it was an earth-impression—a breath of old winds—a shade of substratum
clay—a distillation neither spatial nor timely. He saw Martin’s face in
retrospect as the outline of a rising mountain crag, lonely within the
moon; or as the shaping pseudopods of cloud that are confusing in their
similarity to some ancient clot of memory.
But Roberts was not easily defeated. He spoke evenly.
“We _must_ have dinner together to-night.”
“I have an engagement,” repeated Martin.
“An engagement! _Our_ dinner is important.”
“My engagement is the kind you can’t break.”
“Really!” A supercilious expression flitted across Roberts’ face and his
one sharp word carried an air of volubility.
Martin, looking straight ahead, made one more effort.
“Won’t you walk down this way with me?” he asked.
“But this is a special dinner,” protested Roberts, following him.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Oh, I see. I didn’t realize your social program was so strenuous.”
“This is the first thing of its sort,” Martin replied.
“First thing of its sort?” Roberts laughed shortly.
“Yes,” Martin answered. “That was awkwardly put.”
“Yes,” said Roberts, a mimicking expression on his face. “Yes, yes.”
“Let’s not break this, please.” Martin spoke earnestly.
Roberts’ voice acquired a superior tone.
“I can’t help it, Martin, if your sense of values is unintelligent,” he
said.
“I wish you would understand.”
“I do understand.” Roberts held his finger in the air warningly. “Don’t
let some transitory illusion make a fool of you, dear boy.”
“‘Transitory illusion?’” asked Martin absentmindedly. “It has a history
and a future.”
“Deane Idara is a clever woman,” observed Roberts. “But you have a job.”
Martin smiled queerly.
“Doesn’t my job depend upon my work?” he asked.
Roberts stopped abruptly and faced him.
“I can tolerate rudeness, but not unkindness,” he declared with dignity.
Martin took the other by his arm.
“I want to be as good a friend as you’ve been to me, Roberts,” he said,
trying to speak calmly. “Every contact, economic or social that I have,
you’ve made for me. I’d not be myself if I were unappreciative. That’s
not it alone, though. We have many things together—food—and music—isolate
cynicisms—and all these have their place. You understand. You know, also,
that even with the best of friends, sometimes a path divides. Certain
diversions, certain loves, are found impossible in common.”
“But love is what I need,” said Roberts quietly.
“That element is fugitive.”
“And still I need it.”
“The whole world does,” insisted Martin.
“But I, especially.”
“It’s too difficult, Roberts.”
“Nothing is difficult,” he replied. His voice was sorrowful. “Martin!
Break this date with Mrs. Idara.”
“It has more than precedence, Roberts.”
“I demand it.”
“Then,” said Martin, a feeling of exhaustion coming over him, “I’m afraid
there’s no alternative. I turn down here.”
Roberts’ wide blue eyes looked white in the twilight.
“We’ve been fools, Martin. We should never quarrel. Let’s forget all
this. Come on.” He was like a small boy pulling at Martin’s arm. “We’ll
have wine and chicken. We’ll have mushrooms.”
It might have been a sob.
“I can’t.”
Roberts, blinded to Martin, stared at him. Then he turned swiftly. His
eyes darkened in the first lights of evening and he walked hurriedly away.
* * * * *
Roberts’ face superimposed the view from the window where Martin
stood with Deane. Its expression was somber and equivocal. Through
this skeletal haze they watched the city’s significant pantomime—the
silhouettes and flashings, the play of shadows below them.