“Oh, Heloise,” I broke out, “why do you say this now?”
“Why not?” said she.
“Can't you see that our judgment is worth nothing now--nothing at all.
We've made our plans.”
“Do you want me to go?” she persisted, her eyes half hidden behind
drooping lashes, but on me every instant.
“Do I want you to go?” I almost mimicked her. My voice was rising, and
she got up and slipped swiftly past me, closing the door and leaning
back against it, still watching me. “Do I want to give up the most
wonderful thing in my life, and turn back, all alone to my work?” I
choked. “You know better than to ask such a question. It is foolish. You
must not say such things to me. I can not bear it.”
“Then,” said she, “why on earth are we doing it?”
She came to the chair on the other side of the table and sank into it,
still watching me.
“You are afraid of happiness,” she said.
“No, no--I am not! It is not that!”
“But Anthony, I can't believe that you are afraid of unhappiness. I know
you too well.”
“I am not. I am choosing unhappiness.”
She knit her brows. “Probably,” she said slowly and thoughtfully, “it is
something of both.”
“No,” I answered, “you are wrong. You know well enough what it is. It is
your freedom. That is the one thing I will not, can not take.”
“My what?” she queried, with a curious, faint smile.
“Your freedom!” I cried, standing over her, with clenched hands.
“But Anthony, I am not free. There never was a woman less free--than I
am--now--this minute!”
“That is absurd, Heloise.”
“It is not absurd. Oh, Anthony, Anthony, will you ever come down out of
the clouds! Do you really suppose that I will be free just because you
say so--off there in Paris, knowing every moment of the day and night
that nothing on earth but your generosity keeps me alive--that every
step of my growth will be due to you--that--”
“Stop, dear! You must not--”
“--that I am not even paying my way? Oh, Anthony, bless your dear heart,
sometimes, in thinking about you, I laugh--and sometimes I cry. Can't
you see that I shall not move a mile toward Paris of my own desire, that
I go only because you tell me to--yes, because you order me to? Can't
you see that this has been your idea all along, not mine--that you have
made every decision, down to the minutest detail of my poor life....
Freedom? Why, Anthony dear, I'm a million miles from freedom and
traveling the other way! I don't want that kind of freedom. I want to
work with you--right by your side. I want to earn some real freedom, the
right kind. I want to--yes, to make good with you, Anthony.... Oh, I've
tried to be good. I've tried to accept your judgment in everything.
My life is yours anyway, so there was no harm in that. I love you as I
never knew a woman could love a man. I worship you.... You must not stop
me, Anthony!--Even so, I would give you up.
“If it was best for you. That is all I have asked myself--What would be
best for you? And then you've ordered me about so, Anthony, and what on
earth _could_ I say. I had to plan as you told me to plan. I ought
not to be saying this now. I ought to be going away, very quietly,
saying--'Yes, Anthony. I will go, Anthony.' But now you tell me that in
your heart you want me to stay. And I can see that it is true. I know
you want me.... And yet, Anthony, you have the hardihood, you assume the
wisdom, to decide for us both--squarely against the dictates of both our
hearts. You assume not only to decide for us now--you are deciding what
the future would be if we should stay together. And that is--why, that
is silly, Anthony. There never was a man and woman who needed each other
more than you and I need each other.” Her voice dropped, and softened.
“I don't think a man and woman ever loved more wonderfully, Anthony.
We are n't children. We have suffered. And I think we know.... You
see, dear, I have come to distrust your judgment about some very human
things. Every marriage is a risk. People seldom marry who know each
other as you and I do, who have tested each other.... Oh, I've tried so
hard to accept your judgment. I kept waking up last night, and it all
raced through and through my head; and still I felt I must do as you
say.”
My world was falling about me.
“But your work, child,” I cried. “All that stands just as it stood
before, when we--well, when I--made the plans. The problem is still
there. We can't escape that, not even by the easy process of following
our hearts.”
She had dropped her eyes. She was smiling.
“There is n't any problem, Anthony,” she said.
“Oh, come, Heloise--”
“There is n't, dear. If I spend these next two years just in learning
by heart the operas that I've got to know, they will be years very well
invested. I could do that out here as well as in Paris.”
“But you are begging the question, dear. It is n't just that. You know
it is n't just that.”
“What _is_ just that?” she asked, still smiling.
It was hard to answer this directly. But I had to. I dropped on my knees
beside her. I gripped her shoulders. I tried to make her look at me. For
it would not do for us to go all to pieces--we must face this thing.
“Heloise, dear--you are making me say it, but you knew the problem is
there. You have not forgotten what those three great singers said?”
“No,” she murmured, “I remember well enough.” But still she would not
look up.
“You know what they said... the art of the opera singer is the most
exacting thing in the world. There is no place in it for a husband, a
home... and children, dear. For these things are exacting, too. It was
the three greatest sopranos in the world who said that.”
“Oh, I know all that, Anthony,”--I could not make her lift her
eyes,--“but people are so different. There is n't any problem, really.
There are only different persons. That's all, Anthony. I could tell
you of three other great singers that have husbands, homes and
splendid families.... Only one thing bothers me--they all happen to be
contraltos. Do you suppose there is any such difference as that between
contraltos and sopranos, Anthony?”
Now she looked up. That smile was still hovering about her eyes and the
corners of her mouth. But when I drew her dear head against my shoulder
and pressed my lips to her forehead, it faded.