When Experience came in some time later, bringing a cup of chicken
broth, she found me at my writing desk. Commenting on my flushed cheeks,
she urged me back to bed. But a feverish energy had seized upon me: to
work, to accomplish, to be independent of another's maintenance. There
was a prescience that in the not far distant future I should have need
of such resource, materially and spiritually. I shook off the foreboding
as a connotation of my physical condition. To take my place in the
world's work was the grandiose euphemism with which I lulled my
uneasiness. That same night I unearthed my working kit from the closet
in which it had been stored. One of the rooms of our apartment bearing
the honorary title of "boudoir" had a southern exposure, and, as we were
on the first floor nearest heaven, the light was good even on gloomy
days, which abounded at this season of the year. I shall never forget
the sense of exhilaration with which I cleared the decks for action. It
was as if some great force had breathed the vital impetus into my
nostrils. When I had donned my brown overall-apron I paused and inhaled,
deep and long. It was the first free breath I had drawn for weeks.
In reviewing the busts I had made of Boy while he was still a baby I was
struck with the child's likeness to his father. Even Experience
commented on it. I set to modelling other heads. Inspired by the example
of our sculptor friend I essayed studies in expression. Boy, in a
laughing mood; Boy, crying; sulking, in a temper; Boy asleep, his head
pillowed on Snyder--Snyder, now so altered and disfigured by painless
surgery at the hands of Experience as to be hardly recognizable. From
the face and head I turned to a study of the hands. It had always
appeared to me that there was more of the real character written in the
human hand than in any other feature of the human form. I studied,
absorbingly, the expression the artist had portrayed in the hands of the
Inscrutable One as they emerged from the cloud-like drapery in the final
grouping on the Mount. Strength, firmness, a certain largeness and
benignity and withal a caressing tenderness.... It pleased and
surprised me to observe, how, with each new effort, the clay responded
more readily to my touch. Sometimes I made experiments with modelling
wax; a pinch here, a pressure there and the whole expression changed.
When my touch had mastered a certain sureness and deftness I planned a
nude of Boy with the idea of later executing it in marble. I worked
unceasingly; a relentless energy urged me on--to what purpose it never
suggested itself to enquire. In my ardour I hardly paused to eat. But,
conception is one thing; execution another. I began to understand the
"dogged grind" the sculptor had spoken of. A kind of despair flagged my
spirit. At such times I dragged myself out of doors. Sometimes Boy would
accompany me on these walks, but for the greater part I went alone. I
liked the overcast, drizzly days best. There was a quiet, a solace, in
the unfrequented paths and woodsy corners of the upper boundaries of the
Park. I spent hours sitting upon the rocks feeding the friendly
squirrels, or tramping in the leaf-mouldy tangle. And by degrees my
spirit yielded to the balm of solitude. Once again life fell into a
groove. I told myself I had reached a readjustment of my life. For
Boy's sake, if for no other, my husband and I should go on together. The
fact that I still loved my husband I placed as a parenthetic
consideration, in my plans. Boy was the capstone of our married life.
Having brought him into the world without the desire or power of
selection on his part, obviously our first duty was to the child.
"Honour thy father and thy mother" had always appeared to me in dire
need of amendment. Why honour parents who are not qualified to command
either respect or affection? "Be fruitful and multiply": whether saint
or sinner, breed! breed! breed! Paugh! When will a Wise Prophet arise to
reveal a doctrine of eugenics?--to preach that _quality, not quantity_,
makes for the betterment of a race--that to be well born is the rightful
heritage of the unborn....
With the resolution to write my husband out of the fullness of my
convictions I hurried homeward. The wind had shifted, and sharp bits of
sleet cut against my face. Hearing me come in, Experience had brought me
a cup of tea. I smiled at the ginger-bread dogs--all replicas of
Snyder--which she told me she had made with the hope of amusing Boy. He
had been querulous and quite unlike his happy self; she feared he was
not well, though at this moment he was sleeping quietly. I tip-toed into
his room and, discerning no unnatural symptoms, I left him undisturbed.
The letter written, I gave myself up to the quiet hour: it was dusk, and
with night a soothing hush seemed to pervade the activities of man. In
the shadows of the room the whiteness of the plaster casts gleamed like
tombstones, the lonely sentinels of the dead. I recall I shuddered at
the thought and forthwith switched on the light. Once in every little
while I looked in upon my Boy. When at last he opened his eyes and
smiled at me, I hugged him to my breast with such vehemence as to make
him cry out. His bedtime bath had always been the signal for a romp.
To-night, however, he seemed disinclined to play. A hot dryness of his
skin caused me to take his temperature. I found nothing disquieting in
the slight rise, and in response to his mood I lay down beside him to
wait for the sand-man. All night he tossed. In the morning the
temperature had risen to an alarming degree. I sent for the doctor. He
came twice during the day. In the night Boy was seized with a
convulsion. When the doctor arrived in answer to a summons by
telephone, he looked grave. Something clutched about my heart. It was
with almost superhuman effort I framed the words.... "Shall I ... send
for his father?..." The doctor nodded. "How long will it take him to get
here?" he said....