a hat and coat and ran from the room. When she returned, late in the
afternoon, it was to deliver her trunks and her easel to an expressman.
Howard was not there. As she went out she laid her key on a table and
pulled the self-locking door shut behind her.
3
Howard had given so little time to Em that days passed before any
of his friends, except Algeria, knew she had left him. But Algeria
gloated publicly. She had a cool brain, an accurate feeling for distant
prevention. The retinue was assembling after dinner at Algeria’s studio.
“That girl has _lost_ dear Howard,” she announced confidentially.
“Elephants!” pondered Mitra, voice almost hidden.
Celia only smiled. Gouvain rose and stared agitatedly at a statuette he
loathed.
“Poor Howard was _never_ happy with her. She belongs to that
unfortunate type of being who has _ideals_,” Algeria confided to each
comer. “Emily had a horrible idea of _reforming_ the poor boy. _We_
like to hear him sing. But then we’re not _serious_. Howard is a
little the _faun_, but Emily, alas, is _not_ a fauness.”
It was impossible for Howard to avoid meeting Em. Fate was mischievous.
On the street, Esther’s at dinner, twice in the Square. Em would not
slink away from her haunts. Howard exerted his best skill. The only
solace was that Algeria was with him each time. Algeria embarrassed
him. Em had made him secretly ashamed of Algeria. But now he was glad
he had Algeria to scout Em. Algeria did hurt Em. They had common
acquaintances. Algeria continually implied that she had taken Howard
from Em. Les’s clear-eyed girl friend met Algeria on the street: she
was interested in what might affect Les.
“I hear that Howard Story--” she began hesitatingly.
In the harshness of street clothes Algeria’s vague heaviness of line
was emphasized--what was subtly soft in shimmering draperies became
merely undistinguished. Her body appeared stolid and commonplace, in
the coldness of sunlight her winsome grimaces were ineffective. She
looked handsome, capable, cold, and almost matronly. In a measure
she herself realized this. Her dramatic sense of fitness made her
instinctively adapt herself to the limitations of her appearance, and
her daytime manner was factual and subdued.
“Yes, we have the dear boy back,” she said soberly. “He’s _so_ much
more like himself now. The _trouble_ with the girl was that she was
trying to make Howard over. We don’t _care_ about his faults. Emily
is one of those terribly _deadly earnest_ people, you know. She would
consider Arcady an _immoral_ place!”
Em did not talk. One night at the old neighborhood restaurant. Em
dining alone. Algeria, respectfully followed by one of the male
satellites, sailed to the next table. Em tried not to see them.
“Did Mr. Story--” The voice of Algeria’s companion was fuzzy and
carried badly.
“Yes, dear Howard was _almost_ ill after my last party. I kept him
_all_ night and put ice on his poor head. We had been reading some
of that new man’s stuff--the _Macauleyflowers_ of prose, you know.”
Algeria laughed sweetly.
The satellite humbly mumbled something inaudible.
Em suddenly found herself angry and desponding, unable to keep her
poise. She rose and went out. Her pride could not bear that Algeria
should be her successor. The night street was still thronged. Em walked
along it, through the welter of lights, the noise, the flashings of
motor lamps. Reflections on the steel rails of car-tracks made them
like thin lines of snail slime up the black avenue. There was no end
to anything. Em longed to make herself insensible with noise and light
in the crowd to which she was unknown.
4
Em alone. Only Gouvain tried to see her--secretly from Algeria. She had
not told Les or Genevieve of her break with Howard. Her tiny room was
a cell. Straggly back-yards she could see through her window! Airless
walls opposite. One tree, swelling with tight buds, leaned up and
scraped her glass. The days were yet cold. She did not even set up her
easel. Something in me is going. I must have--I’m too weak! I can’t
live in myself.
She went to see Les. She had lost her pride. His smile was good. She
was glad she was away from Howard’s rooms.
“Les, I’m living in a hall bedroom on Charles Street.”
He wrote the number in a book.
“Have you---?”
“Yes, Les.”
Cicely was not there, but her clothes hanging in the room still burned
and revolted Em. Looking at them she felt physically degraded, yet
unable to protest--caught in her own act.
Les sat thinking. The hand of God....
His solid homeliness comforted her. The narrow mouth, set in a
stern line of repression, dominating his face. The deep-set eyes
and well-lobed ears. Suddenly her heart melted to him. She forgot
everything else. His downcast gentleness wrenched at her. He was her
mournful child. How Howard would despise such a feeling! Les will let
me. I must love something. She felt apologetic of her need to love.
Howard had proved it all false. But she couldn’t help it. No use trying
to be clear and conscious about life. She wanted something to keep her
warm.
“Oh, Les--” She sank to her knees beside his chair and sobbed against
him.
He trembled but could not speak. Can I live again? Alone on a sea
of glass ... ship-lights at night ... gulls crying in the dark ...
screaming spirits ... sunlight on a dead man’s face.... He knew Em was
all he cared for, more than his life. But had he strength?
“Remember I’m much older than you, Em.” I can’t go through it again.
She raised her face and knew by his eyes that he would have her. Les,
Les--“I’m coming to see you, Em, but first I must--”
Cicely!
Em struggled to her feet. She tried to speak to him, but could not. He
pressed her hand. She turned and rushed blindly out.
5
Les wished for Carl.
Carl had shared with him. There had been no asking. A golden thread
between them. Women. Radiant fiends. Pale as dreams.... Carl was in
London but he could touch Carl.
Cicely returned. She threw off her coat happily, dark cheeks glowing,
gold-brown eyes smiling.
“Now I’ll get my boy some dinner.”
“Wait, Cicely--”
He told her. The crime of manhood. Cicely lay crumpled on the bed. She
tried to blame someone, but was too hurt. Les’s heart ached. I had
to--No living thing is merciful. Hands cold as snow.... The garden of
death.... Mouth red for kisses, twisted in pain. Divine pity--Tears
from a harlot’s eyes! There are no stars to see her die....
When Les had gone Cicely got up and packed her things neatly.
Les went several places before he rang the bell at Em’s number. A
scrawny woman with thick spectacles opened the door. There was a rubber
plant in the red-carpeted hall. The stairway smelled of stale food. He
walked heavily upstairs. Les was tired. He felt the suspicious gaze
of the spectacled woman fixed on his back. At Em’s door he knocked.
She threw it back and halted breathless, looking at him through blind
tears of surprise and relief.
“Les!” Em could only weep convulsively.
“Can your things go? A man is coming for them.”
“Oh, Les, Les--”
“We can have our place at Jane Street back. I’ve been there.”
She huddled to him. How peaceful his voice is! She would come back the
next day and settle her account with the landlady. Arm in arm they
passed down the stairs and through the ill-smelling house again. Going
home together! In the street a tremulous sigh.
“Les, I adore you!”
The Polish janitress was in the hall as they entered the Jane Street
house. Em loved the cold clean floors, the shabby familiarity of the
place.
“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, Mrs. Drane.” The stout
janitress smiled and stood aside for them as in the old days. But she
looked at Em cautiously.
“Good evening,” they called back, Em’s voice sweet with happiness.
The fat woman’s eyes followed Les affectionately as he ascended the
stairs after Em. All the strange doors on the landings. I never knew
who lived here, thought Em. It seemed wonderful to have Les in the
horrible cold city world. I’m happy! Oh, I’m so happy!
CHAPTER V
THE FEAR OF LIFE
_“There was once a King and a Queen, and they had twelve children,
all boys. One day the King said to his wife: ‘If our thirteenth child
is a girl, all her twelve brothers must die, so that she may be very
rich and the kingdom hers alone!’ ... When the brothers heard of this
they were very angry, and said: ‘Shall we suffer death for the sake
of a girl? Let us vow that wherever we shall meet one of her sex she
shall die at our hands.’”_
THE BROTHERS GRIMM--_“Hausmärchen”_
(_Trans. Anonymous_)
1
Manhattan narrow like a street, street of the world, sooner or later
one meets everybody.
Sir David Grove, Les’s old rival and colleague: neck and neck, honors
even, each had magnified the other’s discoveries, respectful friends.
Sir David Grove, K.C.B., F.R.S., honorary degrees from a dozen
universities, alphabetical Sir David, titles in imposing inverted
pyramids under his name, covering half the title-page of each of his
books. Drawer full of decorations. They do these things better in
England. Big Sir David, body of a squire, huge peasant beard, eyes like
God’s friend, seeing everything. Voice big like himself. Bang! into
each other in the midst of Fifth Avenue--no escape.
“Damme if it isn’t ------!” Sir David sounded a name that startled Les. My
old name! Why hasn’t he forgotten it?
“Hello, Grove.”
“Come into the Union League here. Jove, what luck!” Les followed,
half-stupefied. Sir David whispered something to an attendant. “Sit
down, sit down, my dear fellow. That’s an easy chair.” Les sank into
the chair. “Where have you been? Your monograph on the Pleurotomidæ
is out, I suppose you’ve seen. Read the proof myself, damn you! Your
university wrote that you were dead! New genus named for you. Good
plates. Eisenwein of Vienna had a fit, started to revise his whole life
work on your new theories, ha, ha, ha!” Les drank dreamily from a glass
of something that had appeared on the little table between them. Sir
David boomed along. “Glad to see you, suppose you’ve been on a little
expedition of your own, what did you get? But seriously, my dear chap,
you must get down and finish up some things with me. Poor old Latour at
the Jardin des Plantes has got the Rhabdocœla all balled up. I can’t go
into it, you know, I’ve got the Pterobranchia and several other groups
to do, and I’m fifty-six. Grabowitz in Moscow is coming on very well
with the Siphonostomata, or would be if that little pissant Denny at
Cromwell Road weren’t eternally publishing half-baked guesses that get
into the literature, he doesn’t know an Entomostracan from an Ascidian.
Of course, as you know, some new material _must_ be found to clear up
lacunæ and so forth, and here’s the plan.” Sir David bent forward in
his chair. “A new expedition, adequate scale, Seychelles, Celebes,
the Andamans, and whole zöo- and phyto-area necessary, every detail
planned, in fact only eight weeks off, I’m over here for last touches
in apparatus. Come along as co-director with me.” Sir David leaned
back, paused for breath, and dragged a big brier pipe from his coat
pocket.
Les’s cheeks tingled with a little color but he did not look up. Em....
Is life beginning again? Helplessly conscious of grandiloquence. Her
eyes on him. I can’t leave Em now. The courage of a greater fear. What
is love? Souls.... I’ll never leave her. He thought of himself as
making an epic sacrifice.
“I suppose you know there’s been a scandal.”
Sir David laughed till the room rang.
“Rubbish! You remember my--well, with little Polly? Now the Dowager
Lady Seccombe, bless ’er? All forgotten. I guessed so. Fact Twichell
said something about the newspapers--I never read ’em. But what of it?
What does the scientific world care about--I tell you they can’t spare
us, my dear boy!”
Les raised his eyes.
“I’m afraid I can’t come, awfully fine of you of course.”
Sir David pulled his riotous beard thoughtfully.
“Too bad, of course Twichell will jump at it, he’s the next best one;
but curse him, he hasn’t a dynamic conception of a species. There’s a
dozen with their mouths all fixed up for it. Hum, I suppose you know
best.”
Les got up.
“Nice to have seen you again.”
As he disappeared Sir David reared his great length and walked twice up
and down the empty room, studiously contemplating his own huge heavily
shod feet. At last, blowing out a dense cloud of smoke, he knocked
the ashes from his pipe and tapped his forehead solemnly with his
forefinger. Then he went in to his luncheon.
2
With Em gone to Les, Howard and Algeria did not quite know what to do
with their own new relation. Algeria seemed childish to Howard. Her
airy defense had been excellent in youth, but it gradually intensified
with time, like a grisly coquetry in a fast-aging woman. The whole
reason for enduring seemed gone with Em, but he would not give up. She
admires me, he insisted stubbornly to himself. He allowed himself to
be pushed into the background, however. He, with Carmen’s help, had
really been ruling Algeria’s circle in her absence. Now he tried to
believe his vanity amused that the group preferred her. She was more
their intellectual size. A good ideal! He tried to enlarge himself with
the magnitude of his contempt, to make it include everyone. Howard was
not given to drink. But he wished he could be drunk--physically--with
anything. To forget.
To keep him diverted Algeria plunged into an orgy of parties. Algeria’s
parties were amazing events. She continually invited people--people
who could not possibly mix--because they had “done” something. Then
she attempted to make them perform. Usually, like babies or pets, they
refused to show off until Algeria became elfishly panicky and drank
more and more wine, at last mazily persuading herself that all was
going delightfully.
Algeria was a genius in capturing and focusing the attention of a
group on herself. But her talent was special and personal. She could
not direct a gathering. One evening she had assembled a collection of
diminutive celebrities. A threatened fiasco had driven her to such a
state of alcoholic defenselessness that jealous poetic rivals had even
succeeded in preventing her from reading her own almost endless poem,
“The Elf Lover.” The Passionate Poetess (the hapless Stieg silent in
leash), with the mastery of a situation that never failed, had wrested
the reins from the wittily despairing Algeria and was in full sway.
Howard arrived late. As he opened the door his glance took in Algeria,
composed of blue and mauve stringers this time, unsteadily holding
court in a corner of the big room--Carmen, Celia, Gouvain, _and_ the
satellites surrounding her--the rebellious P. P. in charge of the
program of entertainment.
“We’re in the midst of a reading,” the P. P. whispered impressively
to Howard as he made his way through the crowd to Algeria and her
entourage. He had hardly seated himself when the P. P. clapped her
plump hands for attention. “Mr. Klobber will now recite an unpublished
poem to an original accompaniment on his mandoguitar.”
There was a rustle of expectation as an anemic young man with misty
spectacled eyes and trembling nostrils shambled forth holding a
ukelele-like instrument and seated himself nervously on a geometrical
chair near the center of the room. To a running tinkle of pleasant
shallow sound he intoned with intense pathos.
_“Here--
There--
Everywhere.
Kittens--
Yellow butterflies.
One in one
Being two
Is two.
Little two,
Will you be my one?
Me, too!”_
As the light applause died away after the final rickety flourish of
the strings, a mountain of a woman in a soiled lace gown exploded with
cavernous voice:
“Subtle!”
“He has a tricksy art,” piped a perky-faced little spinster near her.
Hand-claps again from the P. P.
“Juaquin Pilcher will now read an unpublished poem.”
A mad-eyed young man with a whorl of wiry rebellious hair rose suddenly
from his chair and read monotonously.
_“Rather,
Mon cher,
Notice that the moon
Is a pustule:
That women have legs--
Not limbs,
But legs;
What’s more
Bellies,
Garbage underneath.
But this is of no moment.
Garbage hidden under the snow.
Garbage
Is my apology.”_
“Subtle!” coughed the lace mountain.
“Strong, very strong!” piped the echo.
Howard stared at Pilcher. Eyes, hair--he’s like me, thought Howard
panically. There but for the grace of God--There came over him a
positive terror of Greenwich Village and its absurdities. Algeria
had been holding his hand. He drew it away. I ought to think this
ridiculous. Am I ridiculous? Art versus life! Ha! Slush--
Hand-claps.
“Miss Rosemarie Bean will now read an unpublished poem,” announced the
P. P.
A Pre-Raphaelite maiden with pale red hair half rose and then reseated
herself in confusion. “The title is part of the poem,” she prefaced
guiltily.
_“IT WAS SAID BY MORE_
_Than one ‘the impene-
trable introvert to
Be integral with-
out the facti-
tious device of
A conning tower’ to
Filch security from ob-
vious outwardness must sp-_
_in the unobserved in-
to a construct of a-
lien vision. Wheth-
er the ‘pale rho-
dodendrons of
Fancy’ are erected as
Two facts or one
Is immaterial.”_
“Subtle!” from the bass-voiced mountain.
“Intellectually intense,” from the echo.
Claps.
“Miss Sybil Spinther, an unpublished poem.” Miss Spinther shakes her
head and whispers in terror to the P. P. “Well,” announces the P. P. in
a relieved tone, “by request I will now read one of my own unpublished
poems.” Clearing her throat and adjusting her spectacles she began to
read in a high shrill voice.
_“Not yet the irrefutable implacable
Singing its wild song in Avenue A
Amidst hot tides of flesh,
Turgid loins seeking--”_
Howard rose. The P. P. was good for half an hour at least. Algeria
seized him alluringly.
“We can’t bear to see Pan dishonored, can we?” she whispered
sympathetically.
“Let me get out of here,” he replied in a petulant undertone.
Algeria pouted.
“I thought it would _amuse_ you, dearestie,” she reproached.
“It has,” said Howard viciously. He tiptoed from the room, the P. P.’s
voice blaring after him into the hall and down the stairs.
Ugh! he breathed as he reached the street. Fake artists. Puny
scribblers. Tin-pot Nietzscheans. Tramps. Idiots. Em was--I’m done with
Greenwich Village. The place for those who have nothing. Why should the
damned spot devastate one so! Good God! First Drane and then Em and
now I’m finally disgusted with it. Algeria never would be. It had made
her. Howard told himself over and over that he was sick of the belated
romanticism of Bohemia.
3
Howard was now living at Algeria’s studio. They had never before
publicly been lovers. Algeria would never acknowledge that she had
had lovers. Now she advertised it broadcast. His only protest was a
stinging manner with her friends. She was physically repugnant to him.
Her body had a soft look, not shapeless but blurred. Getting heavy
under the throat. Too thick through the waist, the shoulders too wide,
her breasts sag. He feared to see her in the daytime, she looked worse
then. He wanted to drink with her, to make it easier to take her. He
recalled her lewd visioning of sex. No wonder she sees it like that!
His artistic vanity was included.
Howard missed Em, he would not from pride admit how much. Algeria
guessed it, and as he neglected her more and more her jealousy of Em
grew more virulent. Once Howard mentioned having seen Em.
“Howard’s _pagan_--his _wood-woman_,” explained Algeria in a sugary
tone to the Hungry Soul who, with others, had come to worship.
“The sublimation to an ideal of the erotic--” began the Hungry Soul.
“Sublimation to tommyrot!” interrupted Howard violently. “Miss Tyler
is--”
“Of _course_ she is,” Algeria’s silvery voice glided in. “When you see
that _nice_ girl again, Howard, give her my _love_. Tell her she is
a _ripper_, simply a _ripper_. Oh, no, don’t say _exactly_ that, you
know. Tell her I can _never_ forget her. She is a person one _really_
cares for.” A pause and Algeria added with a winning smile, “Or, no,
you _can_ tell her she is a ripper, after all. She’ll probably like
that more than _you_ or _I_ would!”
“_Damn_ your malice,” growled Howard with suppressed rage. The
Hungry Soul was by this time obliviously discussing psychic sexual
introversion with the other visitors.
“Sh-h-h!” whispered Algeria cautiously, with an innocent look. “You and
I understand, peetie. I was only trying to take in the other stupids.”
This continuous presence of mind of Algeria’s annoyed him unbearably.
Whenever she essayed to insult someone and the tables were turned she
deftly took the intended victim into her confidence. Nothing could
possibly dent her conceit. When Howard was most restive and irritable
she never dreamed of looking within herself for the reason. She saw all
his superficial defects but took no responsibility for analyzing their
origin.
“I was never so bored in my life,” he complained.
“Sweetesty, it’s because other _women_ bother you. They think _they_
will get you away. _I_ see that you are only _nice_ to them. I know
that you _adore_ me, and it’s _hard_ for you. We ought to be together
_alone_ more. But I can’t _escape_ people. There are so _many_ who
really _exist_ because of me.”
Howard looked at her round face drawn into a mimicry of solemnity.
Algeria smiling and heavily triumphant in a crowd--even Algeria
dextrously malignant in a group--was bearable. But Algeria alone and
serious--unhumorous and wifely. It was too much!
She was often bored with him.
“Howard’s developing a _soul_,” she told Gouvain, “and after I’ve
_wasted_ myself admiring his tiresome etchings for him!”
Algeria was a true superwoman--she could not fail!
“I’m sick of things,” Howard grumbled peevishly.
“Of _course_ you are, dearestie,” she replied, patting his cheek. “You
and I will go back to _Paris_ next winter.”
He could not insult her. Her confidence invited awe. Her superiority to
pride was too gorgeous.
Since Howard had come to her Algeria now also persuaded herself that
Mitra had long been secretly in love with her. Magnanimously she keyed
her manner to a delicate sympathy that stirred his silent immobile
amusement. She began to hate Celia for having Mitra, told herself that
it was only because Celia was young and delectable physically. Algeria
implied by her sympathetic attitude toward Mitra that she knew he too
would some day come back to her.
When she stroked his hand he would exclaim pensively:
“Elephants!”
She wondered if he were sometimes laconically malicious, but as her
emotions were not involved she resolved to content herself with his
offering.
4
The brief affair of Howard and Algeria was breaking up. He showed too
plainly that he was ashamed of her. Algeria was beginning to consider
him no longer worth the indignities to which his attitude exposed her.
“Algeria’s all right, but as an artist she’s a joke.” Cheap Greenwich
Village faker, he thought, how could I ever have--He thought of Em.
Clean cut--
He never lingered near Algeria. She was cruelly active in discovering
his faults to others, but when her group was gathered at her studio in
the evening she tried to make Howard drunk to be rid of the annoyance
of deceiving him. Their drunken carousals disgusted him. She spoke of
them wittily.
“Howard and Pierre and Carmen and that Titian-haired Jewish girl had so
_much_ magic last night that finally they all fell in a _Bacchic heap_,
didn’t they?” she said guilelessly at lunch.
“Who was on top?” inquired Celia impudently. “I was too drunk to see.”
Howard flirted outrageously. When they were alone, Howard sober,
Algeria’s irritation grew crass.
“You leave that little pink-headed Jewess _alone_, do you _hear_ me?”
Her eyes, too far apart, were like an angry cow’s. Algeria’s
subtleties were all professional.
“Look here, Algeria,” said Howard wrathfully. “I’m going.” They were
both secretly relieved at his decision.
“To _leave_ me?” she asked incredulously. Her blank handsome face was
almost pathetic.
Howard recalled their many years of varied relation, of her solace
when, hungry for praise, he first began to etch. Unconsciously he
thought of the future. Algeria’s self-responsibility still impressed
him in spite of his disgust. He saw through her, but had to respect her
volitional integrity and independence of action. Algeria had power in
his world.
“I’ve got to be alone,” he said sullenly. “I must do something.”
At the very moment of parting she was convinced that he was not really
bored. She was eased at his going. She imagined that she could control
him better at a distance.
“I _understand_, dearestie. You’re _very_ sensitive and _must_ have
time to work.” My God, she’s turning sedate again, thought Howard,
thank heaven I’m getting out! “I’ll be _freer_ this summer and we can
run away to the country where not a _soul_ can find us.” Her smile was
inviolably radiant. “Peetie, you and I are the _only_ ones who know
how to follow the _Dame_” (so Algeria on Beauty), “but now I feel we
must seek her--_apart_.” Algeria’s gaze was rapt--as when she repeated
her poems--she seemed to behold a vision of herself and Howard, still
spiritually joined in the pursuit of the artist’s Ideal as it soared
before their romantically united souls.
Algeria was of the truly great. Howard was obliged to accept her
interpretation. He moved back to his apartment. Not dictation but
prolonged conferences with Algeria had driven him away. She plunged
back into the whirl of leadership.
“Howard is _so_ disloyal,” she complained to each of her followers. “He
actually told me I looked _tired_ the other night, and _once_ he asked
me what I was like when I was Celia’s age.” All the retainers, with the
exception of Gouvain, feigned to believe that Howard was to blame.
Before going to Europe Algeria had led Gouvain publicly at the wheels
of her chariot, after her return she had seized him again. On Howard’s
defection her rule over Gouvain became iron. He became her _courier_,
errand-boy, servant. He was too gentle to resist. Purchases, theater
tickets, telephone messages, chores in general.
“Let _Pierre_ do it,” she would laugh gayly whenever any manner of
bothersome task was to be done.
“Poor Pierre!” wheezed good-hearted Carmen.
“Maybe he finds it easier than sleeping with her,” suggested Celia
lazily.
But Gouvain occasionally contrived to see Em. Unconsciously he told Em
all that was important. She had believed that Algeria was absorbing
Howard’s personality. Em felt that in leaving Algeria he had come
through something. He had demonstrated that he was real. Even the news
that he was engrossed in one cheap love affair after another was more
satisfying than having him with Algeria.
5
Once alone, Howard began to meet Em more simply and kindly on the
occasions when they were accidentally thrown together. He had no
feeling of nobility but, away from Algeria, he was weary of tension.
Several times Em was with Les, and Howard included him in a natural
salutation. Les replied correctly. Kim was relieved. She set up her
easel in the Jane Street studio and tried to work again.
Les and Em sought their friends again. Genevieve was radiant. She
wagged her long earrings like pendulums.
“Well! I’m beginning to believe that my poor little dinner wasn’t such
a complete failure after all.” She felt a romantic necessity to believe
in the relation of her two friends. It gave her a sense of escape from
superficial contacts.
Genevieve was depressed by the futility of the atmosphere that
surrounded her. She could not successfully intellectualize her
hopelessness. This was the world of art wherein she had failed.
Greenwich Village! The triumph of superficialities--and she saw nothing
else! She remembered with despair the bourgeois home from which she had
escaped.
Em hugged her with savage fervor. Les smiled.
“I’m going to make coffee,” Stuart announced violently.
Michael, with misty eyes, plunged precipitately into an incoherent
description of a play none of the others had cared to see.
Nights and days. Em sang occasionally at her painting. One picture was
showing promise, but she was not satisfied. Les worked hard at hated
reviews and miscellaneous hack-work. Howard they saw occasionally. He
did not even have the comfort of knowing that he was inarticulate. He
was producing a stream of etchings.
Howard’s apartment held the ghost of Em. He could not live in it. He
was pale and wan. I’ve got to move, he said to himself restlessly.
Picking up a morning paper, he began to glance over the advertisements.
“I’m going to get drunk!” he exclaimed aloud, a faint color coming into
his cheeks. His eyes rested on a notice in prominent type.
“ALGERIA WESTOVER’S STUDIO
TO LET FURNISHED ON LONG LEASE TO REFINED INDIVIDUAL LOVING BEAUTIFUL
THINGS.
_May be seen by appointment only._
Address P. Gouvain, 120 Kenilworth Place.”
Howard drew a long breath and lighted a cigarette. A privilege for
ordinary mortals to occupy the dwelling she had sanctified by her
presence! So exit Algeria, bless her little heart, from the stage where
she had done no harm--_sic transit_--!
BOOK IV: “EM”
_“I saw a little girl in tears, said the moon; she was crying over
the wickedness of the world. A most beautiful doll had been given
her as a present. Indeed it was a splendid doll, so fair and so
fragile! Apparently it was not created to stand the rough wear and
tear of this world. The brothers of the little girl, however, great
mischievous boys, had fixed the doll high up in the branches of a
tree and then run away. As the little girl could not reach her doll
and take it down, she began to cry. Evidently the doll was crying
too, for it stretched out its arms amidst the green leaves, and
looked quite sad. Yes, yes, the little girl experienced some of the
troubles of this world....”_
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN--_“What the Moon Saw”_
CHAPTER I
IMAGE
_“‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar._
_‘Not quite right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice timidly; ‘some of the
words have got altered.’_
_‘It’s wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly,
and there was silence for some minutes.”_
LEWIS CARROLL--_“Alice in Wonderland”_
1
Em and Les were pathetically glad to be together again. Their first
night together they had both wept, Les silently and Em hysterically.
The remembered rooms, the familiar things about them, well-known and
dear surroundings. Les was timid. Em waived sex. I don’t care about our
bodies. I’m at home with him. They feel that all is well at last.
They had so much in common! Les was a congenital artist who by the
atmosphere of a commercial land had been railroaded into concrete
activity. She was a congenital artist who was a rebel. Why should they
not comfort each other? Their friends gathered closer around them.
Genevieve and Stuart. Dinners together again. Toby and Tit Miller
dropped in. Em forgave Tit at first sight.
“Very much good say!” He whirled her about the studio until she was
breathless.
“Don’t, Tit!” she begged, dizzy and laughing. His nonsense made her
feel all the world simple--no need for defense. What she called
reality. He described a sweeping arc with his hat and bowed low to
Les, the hat clutched theatrically to his heart. Em loved his boyish
relaxation.
Toby helped her to a chair and drew another close to hers. In the
penurious surroundings of his big dusty attic he experimented in
chemical syntheses, and now he carefully produced from his pockets
some tiny vials containing perfumes made by himself, which he solemnly
bestowed on Em.
“To enable you to keep your husband’s love,” he said unctuously. Em
ignored his language and thanked him effusively. “Don’t I even get a
kiss?” he complained sadly. She laughed again and kissed him lightly,
jumping up to escape his lingering embrace. She loved him, too. He
loves me--even if I don’t let him.
“I’ll make us all some chocolate.” She tripped back and forth gayly,
the cups and spoons tinkling pleasantly in her hands. Toby’s damp eyes
followed her avidly. Poor Toby! He was boundlessly promiscuous in his
search for the _grand amour_ that would be the culmination of his
life. Toby was a flower--a flower on a dung-hill. Em loved him for the
virtues in him which he himself despised. She smiled affectionately
first at him and then at Tit. When the chocolate was ready she went
over and kissed Les. They all gathered contentedly around a low table.
Candle-light drew them together in its vagueness. “Look out, it’s hot,”
she warned solicitously.
Before they could drink, the bell rang. Em ran to the door. It was
Mark and Blanche. Blanche burst excitedly into the room, giggling and
patting Em and Les, oblivious of them in her own agitation. Her perfect
satisfaction with herself was disarming.
“You lovely children, do you know, Mark, that I said to John just the
night before Jen told me--” Without stopping for breath she was off on
her endless soliloquy. All, in spite of themselves, conspired toward
the perfection of her illusions.
Mark shambled in after her. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Gulping
violently he kissed Em and seized Les’s hand in a spasmodic quivering
grip.
“What’s the use of trying to say anything?” he said, wiping his eyes
and blowing his nose shamelessly. Unheeding of Blanche’s unbroken
chatter in his ear, he carelessly handed a little package to Em. She
untied it and drew out a beautiful Chinese carving.
“Oh, Mark!” she expostulated, “you shouldn’t. You need the money
yourself.”
“Money’s no good, you can’t buy anything with it,” he replied quaintly.
Mark was utterly irresponsible as regards finances. His rent was
overdue and Em’s carving had been bought with the landlord’s money.
He told himself that he refused to take life seriously, and his
stories concerned themselves with morbid and whimsical conceptions of
annihilation, a mixture of decadence and transcendentalism, mirroring
his easy yet terrible philosophy. Now, among his friends, he was giving
himself simply and completely to the voluptuous feeling of affection
without responsibility. “It’s good to see you together again,” he
whispered to Em.
More chocolate was set forth and boisterous conversation made the rooms
live.
“I have a poem here,” Les drew a paper from his desk, “new style,
written to someone unknown to me. I’ll read it to you if you’ll give me
your opinions on it.”
“Go on! Sure! Fine! Let’s have it.”
Les read gravely.
_“TO J. V._
_Dickens and Balzac
Were said to have constantly
Mingled their fictions
With their real experiences.
Every one must have known
_Some_ specimen of our mortal dust
So intoxicated
With the thought of his own person
And the sound of his own voice
As never to be able
Even to think the truth
When his own autobiography was in question.
Amiable, harmless, radiant J. V.!
Mayst thou never wake
To the difference between thy real
And thy fondly-imagined self!”_
“A fine thing, but a shade too intellectual,” said Tit oracularly as
Les finished.
“I don’t call it a poem,” declared Em brusquely.
“I can’t get it at all,” Blanche admitted blithely.
Toby deigned no comment on an effusion that contained nothing erotic.
Mark was lost in rapt self-communion and had heard nothing.
“You’re primarily a painter, Em, and don’t sense the subtleties of
words,” argued Tit. “I seldom find myself at fault on such things. The
author of that thing is a real artist, but inexperienced. Where did you
get it, Les?”
“James’s _Principles of Psychology_, volume one, page 374.”
“Get out!” Tit looked frightened.
Les handed him a book.
“Word for word. The page is turned down.”
Tit involuntarily joined in the laughter.
“Well, this proves what I’ve always maintained, that William James was
the artist and Henry the psychologist,” he retorted adroitly with an
impish gesture.
They felt happy in each other’s warmth. It was late when the group
broke up.
“If Stuart and Jen had only been here it would have been perfect,”
gushed Blanche as good-nights were said.
“See you soon,” they each called as they filed down the stairs.
“Aren’t they imperfect dears?” demanded Em as the lower hall-door
slammed after them. “And isn’t it lovely to be here together again?”
Les kissed her.
“Yes,” he said.
2
New days of life. Some of them were beautiful. Then the old tentacles
feeling their way again. Tiny spun threads of doubt. Em was too
careful. Deep in herself she realized this was her last chance with
Les, her last chance with life. She had to rebel against the need for
hiding her sharp undeviated edges of personality. Life, forcing her
to restraint, made her the more unpremeditated. The world was growing
dim again. Outside horrible people, living unreally according to
conventional types. She tried in vain to work seriously. The promising
picture had not precipitated into distinction: at the instant of hope
it was gone, some paint upon a canvas. I can’t get it. Maybe it’s
because I’m happy again. Am I happy--
Les, the silent Les, began to talk. Something unknown drove him. He
was sitting at his desk in the waning afternoon light, his strong
nose etched against the curtain behind him, his wide chin emphasized
by the dark furrows at either side of his mouth. Em watched him. Her
tenderness for him ached in her.
“Em.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Has your picture come out right?”
“Not yet.” She willed hope into her voice.
“I feel--I blame myself--for your not having done more. I sometimes
think--I was to blame--for things--” The reason for my failure is that
I’m too reasonable. The virtue of a little insanity!
Em went to him and smoothed his hair.
“It will come, Les. It’s all right.” Shadows lay under her eyes and ran
down from the bridge of her delicate nose toward the edges of her mouth.
He drew a long breath. Conquering a lifetime secrecy, he fought on.
“My hardness persecuted you till you--” If I can talk I won’t feel this
hindrance between us.
She placed her fingers on his lips.
“You’re _not_ hard. I won’t have you abusing yourself. I was the one
who--Let’s not talk, Les. Let’s just love each other.” She bent and
laid her lips against his forehead. She feared his conscience. “I love
you, Les. Don’t you know I love you?”
“I wonder if any woman can love me.” Nobody can love one who arouses
contempt, as I do in Em. How had she ever left him if this perfection
were not an illusion? Once before it was like this and I believed. He
could not bear to risk another awakening.
“Oh, Les--” Pain. Tim was the one who wanted peace now!
He took her hand and held it to his cheek.
“I’m afraid my vanity is too crippled ever to recover, Em.” Howard
Story. That Algeria woman. _They_ were what Em went to. The kind of
people she--Don’t you see I don’t dare to believe in us?
Em withdrew her hand and seated herself in a chair near the desk. Her
sloping shoulders drooped, already she was tired.
“Les, you mustn’t let things grow that were never there. We _must_ be
happy now.” She was stubbornly giving.
“I’m very much older than you, Em,” he said irrelevantly. She needs
something I couldn’t give, that I’ll never be able to give.
“Bosh! What’s that got to do with _us_? Les, you’re as morbid as--”
“I wonder if it’s the place,” he continued, perplexed. Greenwich
Village. We must get away. Then maybe we--“Em, I saved quite a lot
while I was alone in Chicago with my salary and expenses, let’s go
somewhere together.”
“All right, sir!” She jumped from her chair and flung her arms around
him. “Won’t it be dear?” she whispered.
As she released him he lighted a gas lamp and took up his papers.
“I’ve got to finish my blurb on this damned book before dinner.”
“And I’ll make a charcoal sketch for an arrangement I thought of last
night.” She walked toward her work-room. “Let’s get Jen and Stuart and
go to Manzinetti’s for dinner tonight. The bunch will probably all be
there.”
“All right.”
They felt better.
3
Genevieve came often, usually with Stuart. Genevieve was too timidly
glad, too conscious of them, did not take enough for granted. Jen is
afraid for us--Em and Les had been talking again. Talk about Howard,
Algeria, not about Cicely, talk.
Michael had been in, full of talk about an old connoisseur who wanted
to adopt him, leave him money, or Ming vases, in his will. Michael
had ostentatiously steered away from personal matters. Now Genevieve,
exhibiting too much delicacy. Em’s talk with Les had unfitted her
to bear Genevieve’s anxiety. Les had explained that he felt he was
emotionally lacking. Otherwise Em would not have gone to Howard, he
thought. She had thought, I’m too much for him.
Cicely! He loved Cicely because she needed none of his strength. Can
I trust myself? Will I ever be what Les wants? If he’ll only wait! If
he’ll let me grow old. Les might die. She couldn’t bear that. Better
die first. Cicely had disappeared. Gouvain had told her. Les would not
speak of it.
Genevieve sat in the studio and chatted almost as loquaciously as
Blanche could. If Genevieve would let them see her heart. But she only
talked frantically.
“Good-by, dears.” She was going. She kissed Em and held Les’s hand
in both hers. Her faithful eyes were worried as she walked slowly
downstairs. Is it my fault? Afraid to blame Em, she blamed Les for her
doubts. I suppose I’m a damn fool, she said to herself.
As Genevieve’s footsteps died away in the hall Em lighted a cigarette
and sat down to think.
“Les, do you love me?” she asked suddenly. Genevieve had said something
to disturb her. Something is still wrong between Les and me, what is it?
“Of course I do, Em.”
Em thought and felt incidentally. No amount of devotion could convince
her of love. In most ways she accepted from Les a responsibility for
her that was absurd, yet she exercised over him a minute psychical
tyranny of which he was but half aware.
“That’s a queer way to express it, Les.” I can’t take things as a
matter of course.
“What do you mean, dear?” He came to her.
“You only talk about love.” He has no curiosity, she thought bitterly.
Just drift--
“There’s no answer to that, Em.” His voice was tired and hurt, the
lines in his face deepened. Every emotion dictated. No place to retreat
into myself while I’m with her. Strength all for defense--
Em drew away from him.
“Of course not. It’s true. There’s never any answer to the truth. What
you want is answers.”
He felt confused and wronged. His suspicion of himself already seemed
confirmed. The change of keying was sudden and inevitable, but he could
not put his finger on the subtlety beneath it. Crown of thorns. Blood
on His gown ... the cross ... sleep flying down ... He should have
taken her in his arms and broken her on his heart, but he only talked
hopelessly. Fevered striving for recognition. The world cold, Em needed
a touch to heal her, and he offered her words.
“Because I act differently you feel that I--”
He pities himself, she thought pitilessly.
“If I only knew you felt at all!”
Les began to walk back and forth.
“I said just before Jen came in that I lacked something, Em.” Les
acknowledging inferiority! The sin of being forgiven--Had they both
forgotten that they were determined that life together should not be
impossible?
Em rose.
“You expend just as much emotion on anybody or anything else as you
have for me.”
Les’s eyes darkened, he felt numb. It’s she who shares with anybody. I
don’t count. No appreciation of individuality. Invades my personality.
Ignores my desire. Achievement ... my novel ... graves lying still ...
I wish Carl--Fear of losing her still ruled him.
“I don’t dare now to say what I think any more.” She always lustful for
revenge, and I always frightened. Impulses, outgoings--all swallowed up
in fear!
They looked at each other baffled. The trip they were to take together
away from grief was forgotten.
CHAPTER II
MIST
_“I won’t be my father’s Jack.
I won’t be my father’s Jill.
I will be the fiddler’s wife,
And have music when I will.
T’other little tune, t’other little tune,
Prythee, love, play me t’other little tune.”_
_“Mother Goose’s Rhymes”_
1
The fact of Howard’s rather prompt desertion of Algeria had sowed
poison in Em’s relation with Les. She did not realize this, I knew
Howard couldn’t stand her. Did _our_ relation really mean something to
him? Em was desperate at not being able to work. She would not admit
that the new Les had disappointed her unalterably.
Les had found Cicely, had met her accidentally in downtown New York.
Cicely was seeking work. He had tried to be friends with her, had
offered to take her to the Empire State Trust Company, to ask Mr.
Sutton to employ her as young Babbitt’s assistant. Cicely had not
reproached him, but had refused help, had refused to be friends. Les
told it all to Em.
“Why should she hate you, Les?”
“She doesn’t. It’s the same kind of pride I should have.”
Em had hoped he would condemn Cicely. She admired him for not doing so,
but she despaired.
“You must find some way to help her, Les.” A frozen hand caught Em
by the throat. She knew that she would always have to share Les with
Cicely, whether Cicely was there or not. I’m not big enough--
Les worked early and late. Freelancing was a hopeless campaign. He
said nothing, but he was too tired to make love. Em often left him
and went out. He’s happier when I’m away, she told herself. She saw
Howard frequently. Greenwich Village is a neighborhood. Once he was in
a restaurant with Cicely. That worried her. She felt a conspiracy of
understanding from which she was excluded. Once Howard overtook Em on
the street.
“Shall we have some tea?” He looked young and artless, smiling at
her, a suggestion of pain hidden in his eyes. Em was sentimentally
conscience-stricken that she had broken so brutally with Howard.
“I don’t mind.” She was so pleased that she was surprised at herself.
It was relief to be with Howard again. He understands my inadequacies,
how inevitable they are.
Unconsciously she drifted into trying to hold to Les and yet get Howard
back. She explained it to herself, that a human relation had survived
between them all. Em was honest, but intellectually blind. Her emotions
were subtle. She was frightened that she wanted Howard again, but their
past mutual cruelties in the gray of her present apathy seemed life.
She inarticulately felt that Les and Howard combined would be complete.
She tried to argue herself into a justification of such a situation.
Deep in Em’s unconscious self Cicely stood. Cicely was Em’s audience.
Em was pathetically trying to wring, first from Les and then from
Howard, some sign that she, too, was physically compelling. After
Algeria, Howard could not put Em out of his mind. He wanted Em, for
vanity’s sake. He needed to leave on her some mark of his power. She
wanted him for stimulus. After Howard, she could not endure alone the
lack of stress with Les. She would not conceal her actions.
“Les, should you mind if Howard came here occasionally?”
Les’s large brow wrinkled. His hair, swept backward over his head, was
becoming streaked with gray. He thought a moment, his small powerful
hands clenched. The passenger rocked the boat! Ha! Ha! Ha! Am I going
insane? Yes, it’s true--
“Why do you want him, Em?” No security. Failure. Love is
defenselessness before one person. Its pathos arises chiefly from the
fallacy that it will be a source of comfort in a hostile world. Bah!
What good thinking? He was betrayed. I am old....
“Do you think there is any reason why we should act conventionally,
Les?” Em at the moment really believed what she said. She did not
notice something impelling her.
“Why risk our happiness again, Em?” He felt degraded by pleading.
“Why fear risks?” she asked valiantly. “Why not prove our happiness?
That Les cared exhilarated her. Was he happy? Child of the moment, she
had forgotten Howard, though they were discussing him.
“Are you sure you aren’t beginning to care for him again?” Must I be
defiled by jealousy? “You think if you take risks emotionally enough
they aren’t risks.”
Em was repulsed.
“Of course on your theory of the emotions that’s the obvious
explanation.” She caught at anything to defend herself. _I_ can’t tell
the truth either. How like my talks with Howard!
Les felt that he knew his fatal handicap. I’m constructive. Em and
Howard were both destructive. I realize I have lost.
“Why must you have him? Love can’t exist without fortitude, Em.” She
won’t use will power--
Now he’s preaching to me, she thought resentfully.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. “I’m not in love with him.”
Les bowed his head. Dividing soul and body. Degrading both. Secret
smiles ... speak no word....
“I make no objection,” he said.
2
Howard came. There was almost a flourish in his mien. He would never
love Em again, he thought. She belongs with Lester.
“How are you, Drane?”
Les took his hand without reply. Em’s small beautiful head above her
slender neck. Em’s delicacy and distinction of body, wistful boy-girl
body with its hard pointing breasts. Her bravado and pathos. I can’t
bear for him to see her as I see her. Damn the Village! Place where you
share your money and the body of your woman--slime!
Em had put flowers on the table. She had arranged her marvelous hair
carefully, wore a becoming gown Les had never seen. Howard imitated
himself, displayed his social skill, charm. He was playing to Les more
than to Em. He retailed a clever risqué story. Em laughed lightly.
“What poison-minded people!”
Howard flashed.
“People’s imaginations are like necessary evils in society.”
A string of neat phrases. Les appeared surly and clownish. He knew it.
His smile was a dead man’s smile. Em and Howard striking fire from each
other! Flowers. Hair. Gown. I will not! Anguish. Cold hollow of her
breast ... beauty grown foul.... He rose and grasped his hat and coat.
“You must excuse me.”
Les stumbled as he walked down the stairs, his hand on the rail.
3
When Les returned Em was alone. She lay on the bed, her thin body
contorted in an agony of weeping.
Les could not speak. Will the end come? What do I want? The night
outside. The moon ... still pool ... white arms enfold me....
He seated himself in a chair. Morning. He was still there.
Em had gone to sleep.
CHAPTER III
TIE
_“In the evening they talked together pleasantly, then quarrelled,
then came to blows. In the morning both are ashamed and surprised,
they think it must have been the result of some exceptional state
of their nerves. Neat night again a quarrel and blows. And so every
night until at last they realize that they are not at all educated,
but savage.”_
_Note-Book of_ ANTON CHEKOV
(_Trans. S. S. Koteliansky and L. Woolf_)
1
Em again gave up Howard. She could not bear Les’s hurt. Howard’s
coarseness of misunderstanding had defiled her. She was convinced that
she was physically incompetent. Les was withdrawn, Em was away from the
studio a great deal. It humiliated her now to see Howard. She saw him
several times, never with Algeria. Les at home alone, what am I running
after? One day Howard overtook her again.
“Em, why are you avoiding me?”
“I want to be alone.”
“Let’s go to the park and walk.” He hailed a taxi.
“I don’t want to, Howard.” The cab-driver turned away, incensed.
“When can I come to see you again?”
“Don’t come any more.”
Hatred struggled in Howard’s eyes. The malice of women!
“Then why did you ask me at all?” His mouth twitched a little.
Em was compassionate. She was cruel to everything but helplessness.
“I’m sorry, Howard.” Her voice was soft.
He sprang to the hope of control. He was always at his best when
winning. He straightened his loose shoulders.
“You can’t treat people like this, Em. You should at least allow a day
or two for the holes to heal before stabbing again. No wonder you’re
finding yourself isolated.”
His words reached home, she cringed under them.
“There’s no need for you to risk anything by trying to rescue the
outcast,” she said sullenly.
He went on ruthlessly.
“Men run from you because you insult them without letting them sleep
with you.” Howard was as unsatisfied as she or Les with the ugly lack
of criteria of self-respect around them. But he was compelled to make
her realize him.
“I don’t want to sleep with anybody!” she exclaimed in angry pain,
tears starting to her eyes.
“Pooh! Marriage has destroyed women’s fastidiousness. A woman who
sleeps with one man she detests will sleep with any man once convention
is relaxed.” No one is decent any more. Why deny life as it is?
Unmorality. Dirt! Can’t possess one’s own person. No form to life. I
hate it, too, but I must have her back or blot her out. She’s ruined
me. “You hang to Drane from fear.”
“I don’t!” she cried, helpless in her confusion and wrath.
“You’re both afraid. Every lover lives in fear. And you’ve lectured me
about courage!” Howard laughed scornfully. He was riding to victory.
Em did not realize that it was her own despair that was subduing her.
“Why is it any longer your business even if it’s so?” she jerked out
like a vexed schoolgirl.
Howard shrugged his shoulders. She would not come to him, but she was
humbled. He could not live beneath her.
“It isn’t. Why should I worry? When you can’t get all you want, you
destroy all you have. Well, it’s up to you. I’m through.”
Brawling on the street! What made her listen? The fear of not being
hurt? Em shivered. She lifted her head.
“Let’s not repeat this, please. I’m glad you understand. I don’t want
you or anyone else. I only want to work. Good-by.”
Howard laughed again, malicious exulting in his laugh.
“Work? It is to laugh! You won’t work. Your things get worse and worse.
Instead of rhythms you’re producing ringlets!”
Em’s mouth opened and she paled as if he had struck her in the face.
He walked away. Conquered! He felt happy. He was not afraid of Em any
longer.
She had planned to dismiss Howard!
2
Em went home wounded and sore. Les was sitting alone in the studio. She
walked by his chair, laid her hand upon his head.
“My dear!” She needed to be near him, longed for a bodily presence, a
presence to touch and comfort.
His mouth trembled.
“Em, I need help. Life frightens me. I’m not up to your standard.” His
voice was bitter and tired. “I wish I were a woman.”
She turned away from him. She had no excess of life to give any more.
I’m weak, too.
“It’s easy to be a woman, Les. You only need to be useless.” Her
painting was feeble, she knew it now, even her first best things.
Nothing in the world, not even herself. The waste of suffering! She
was glad he was weak and small before her. She could reach him. The man
where there is no child. She turned to him again. “Les, Howard is gone.”
Les’s hands clutched his chair. Dare to think--The tree of life ...
angels like butterflies ... a lamp held high....
“Gone?”
“He won’t come any more.” She approached.
“Em--” Les’s shoulders heaved, but Em could hear no sound. She knelt
and stroked one of his tense hands.
“Yes, darling.” Her throat ached.
“Em, we _will_ go away.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“We’ll go away. While I was alone I saved enough. We’ll go to some far
warm place--and be.” Rose-colored dreams. Minarets ... closed blooms
of lotus flowers ... cry like a silver bird ... eyes behind a veil ...
golden breasts....
“Yes, Les.”
“Where there is no more struggling.” Seas with no tide ... island
belted with gold sand ... crooning of the sea ... listening shore ...
peace....
“Yes, Les.” She snuggled to him. Life cannot be felt. Go from life,
leave pain. It makes no difference to live. I will, she resolved, I
will!
He bent and put his arms around her, his face on her shoulder, his
cheek to hers. They sat clutching each other in the failing light.
Les’s hour had come. She was beaten. He was already on the sea. Saffron
ship ... night like black hair ... white fires of spume ... birds in
the painted sky ... lonely cries in the dark ... dim land ... palms
like harmless madmen....
“Oh Em! You will love me!”
She clung to him.
“There’s no one but us, Les.”
Les’s world had become a holy place. Church of the sea ... pale lilies
of foam ... chant of storms ... rosaries of spray ... Em’s pictures of
heaven ... my book, the Sacred Book ... candles of God in the sky ...
the star of hope, star made of a lily....
Em shuddered.
“Kiss me, Les.”
CHAPTER IV
“WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF”
_“I dreamed we lived in a wood, Mama,
And rested beneath its bowers,
When a butterfly came in its flaunting pride
And I chased it away to the forest wide,
And night came on and I lost my guide,
And I knew not what to do._
_“I cried and I sighed in my fears, Mama,
And I loudly called for thee,
When a white-robed maiden appeared in the air,
And she flung back the locks of her golden hair,
And kissed me sweetly ere I was aware,
Saying ‘Come, little one, with me.’”_
AUTHOR UNKNOWN--_“Old Lullaby”_
1
As he thought of it, Les was more frightened by Em’s letting Howard go
than he would have been by her clinging to them both. Change! Change
after change. He feared her immediacy, he distrusted women who melt. Em
knew she debited cruelly to Les the fact that she had to give up Howard
entirely. She was finally quite detached about it and wondered why Les
could not be. He tried to have faith.
“I knew you were fine inside, Em.”
She did not reply--she spoke of _him_.
“You’re good, too, Les.”
He was silent, amazed. Praise was bewildering. He grew suspicious.
“You mustn’t get mushy, Em.”
Now he was accusing her of having an ideal of _him_. Les was
two-dimensional, a drawing, one could not feel his edges. Em was
sculpture. He was outclassed. She spoke curtly.
“You’re the one who’s mushy--about yourself. Humility is a romantic
emotion.” Em respected nothing that was not like herself.
“I’m not humble.”
“You’re a martyr.”
“Em--” he protested, bruised.
“Sacrifice that costs too much is an insult,” she continued
remorselessly.
They were both walking about the studio, aimlessly and nervously.
He was frightened. Why couldn’t she be docile? There was never any
stopping-place after such a beginning. And we were going away to peace!
Les was afraid to touch her, she made every contact an occasion for
making him and herself feel intensely. He was the only one left whom
she could hurt without paying for it. Now she hurt him even before
others. Once she had kept her whip for private use, recently she had
not hesitated to speak completely when their friends were present.
Genevieve and Michael had witnessed the last quarrel. Soon it would be
strangers! Tides.... The world. The Village coming in--Psychic living
with everybody. Treachery of spirit--I’m betrayed to others.
“Em, I shall go away if you ever insist on stripping me again before
outsiders,” he had said afterward.
She had rebelled furiously. I won’t be his child!
“Why don’t you go?” she had dared him.
Today he was apprehensive again. She resented his quick trepidation.
How can I get through this moment without revealing myself, he thought.
She was thinking indignantly, he’s insulting me by being afraid.
“Em, why can’t we be just kind?”
Em felt the same, but she rejected suggestions even though she agreed
with them. She was obsessed with preserving her own contours.
“You and I have done something to each other, Les.” Her voice seemed to
him callous. “We can never either of us be the same again, we tear each
other.”
Les and Em knew they had to talk. It had been gathering too long. They
seated themselves and began to discuss their life as if it belonged to
others.
“You resent my having any dignity,” he replied spiritlessly. Wring
another stimulus. Spiritual clutching and clawing. My strength for
this. I shall never write....
She ignored his words.
“Les, we’ve never possessed each other, we make each other cruel.” Em
seemed only to be stating a fact.
“You’ve ignored my will, Em. You can’t find any joy in respectful and
voluntary communion.” Jealous of my thoughts!
“You’ve no joy in anything,” she gibed. He’ll give me anything but what
I want.
Les knew it was hopeless, he had acknowledged too much, but he went on.
“Em, you know what I have--”
“Yes, you have,” she said with quiet bitterness. “Your preconception of
me still lives. _I_ died to you a year ago.”
Her mental phrases disconcerted him. He realized that they held portent.
“Em, can’t we begin--?”
“What’s the use, Les?” she interrupted, her eyes gazing far away. “I’ve
hated your ideal of me too long.”
He was too tired to argue. Bound together only by dangerous secrets!
“Please don’t, Em,” he begged.
“I can’t bear to share you, Les.” They were both tired.
Howard and Les were the same kind of artist, they both thought
generally, Les even felt generally. All he wanted was his picture of
himself. He marveled that failure with another hurt him so little, he
did not know that alone he could never fail. His trusted mechanisms.
Now that he was done--
“I can’t be anything but what I am, Em. I’m sorry.”
Em rose so suddenly that he started in his chair. She had schooled
herself until she was tingling.
“You won’t be anything but words!” Why did I try to argue with him? I
knew it!
The truth had no words for either of them. He rose too, his voice was
colorless.
“An absolute giving of every moment and thought for a lifetime to you
is only ordinary kindness,” he said slowly. “You resent one moment for
myself as heartless brutality.” Clinging together just to have someone
to hurt! Let me go, Em, let me live! Les’s face was set.
Em’s eyes were wide and cruel.
“I don’t want your machine!” she cried, choking. “I want myself--what I
want means nothing to you--I want to be alone--”
He looked old. He could no longer suffer, but habit led him. Pity
everything that lives--
“Listen, Em--”
She stood straight, her voice trembling.
“Go to Cicely Frank. She wants to stand you--God, how I pity her!”
“Em!” He moved toward her. It can’t go on. I really never expected--
“I want to get away from you!” she said shrilly, backing out of his
reach. “You have no heart! You’re a ghost. You’re killing me!” Em held
her hands to her head, her eyes staring. “I hate you!” she screamed,
“you fool idealist!”
Her repugnance gave him freedom. He was convinced that she could live
without him. He spoke decidedly.
“All right, Em.”
His relief maddened her. She struck her own face with her hands, then
him. She pushed by him, seized at her coat, stumbled against the table,
fumbled at the door. Her eyes were dull, she breathed hoarsely.
“Let me get out of here--I never want to see you again--”
She rushed into the hall tumultuously, with uncertain steps, leaving
the door open. Les closed it. He stood thinking of himself. I’m dead,
Em thought, as she rushed into the street.
2
Em returned to her hall bedroom on Charles Street. The scrawny woman
looked through her spectacles curiously at Em’s strained face. The
easel and Em’s trunks were never moved.
Les kept on at his tedious work. It was for himself. It seemed less
distasteful somehow. He smoked a great deal, at night. Genevieve came
once. She did not dare to go to Em. Les lived entirely by himself.
Peaceful ghosts ... separate ... going ... ship ... sunset, sea of
blood ... seaweed, float like dead hair ... black moonbeams ... Carl go
with me ... forever....
Toby found Em at Charles Street, the scrawny woman suspicious. He
looked around the tiny grimy room.
“_Dear_ girl, is it--?” Toby’s eyes were foolish and wet. Em nodded.
“Do you think you could love _me_?” He held out his childish hands
unbelievingly. He would never have asked for her till she was thrown
aside.
She had to smile.
“No, Toby dear, I’ll never want anybody again.”
Toby went sadly.
Gouvain not only made love to her, he dogged her steps.
“Iss zere no hope?” he asked, late one evening. “I lofe ze ground your
feets tread.” He swallowed hard. _“Emilie--ma pauvre--je t’aime--je
t’adore--moi--”_ He stammered pitifully, his beautiful eyes like a
patient dog’s.
Em looked at him, suffering in her face.
“I--no--don’t--” she said, patting his arm kindly. She knew he would
not do. After he had had her, it would be the same. It was a pity he
was so sweet. He loved her soul because he liked her body! Another fool
idealist.
He kissed her hand, gentleness in his whole being.
All grasping at straws! Em felt love was ecstasy, Les felt it was
permanence. Em pondered. Love was individuals. They can’t see. Love was.
Les had hope in himself. He walked every evening downtown. At last he
met Cicely. There was still no reproach in her eyes. She is kind. I
must have--
“Won’t you walk on the Battery awhile before you go home, Cicely?”
Cicely shook her head. Down the cold spring street people rushed by
them like driven wraiths. The high buildings rose heavily in the
perspective beyond them.
“No, Les.” Her humility made her cruel to herself.
“I didn’t know you were so hard, Cicely.”
She looked at him sadly, her eyes unsoftened.
“A girl has got to have some pride, Les.”
She left him and mingled with those who hurried to the subway.
Now they called to Les, the distant places. His boyhood day-dreams
back again. Laboratories and honors, shadowy friends, women, Em, all
forgotten. His eyes looked out to sea, that’s the only thing big
enough--The garden of the earth ... sun dimmed by grief, there are not
even any clouds ... calling, calling ... tossing arms of foam ... light
beyond, light falling like rain ... stars, dawn, bright seeds fall to
the furrowed sea ... warm, the tropic sun ... hair woven with gold ...
sleep....
CHAPTER V
LOVE MAY GO ON
_“But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet seventeen. I was
the very moral of my poor dear mother, and she was a pretty woman,
though I say it that shouldn’t. She had such a splendid mouth of
teeth. It was a sin to bury her in her teeth.”_
SAMUEL BUTLER--_“The Way of All Flesh”_
1
Genevieve, worried and timorous, finally braved the scrawny woman’s
spectacles.
“May I see Miss Tyler?”
The woman pointed weirdly upward, Genevieve ascended along the gloomy
stairway and knocked softly at the mysterious door. Em opened to her.
Genevieve tried not to see the white drawn face and thin arms, the
tumbled bed behind Em, paper bags, food. Em hasn’t been out to eat.
“Jen--what--” Em spoke dully but her eyes shone unnaturally.
“Darling, I just came!” Genevieve gathered Em in her arms and held her.
Em attempted to smile, haggard sick smile. Sunshine came through the
window behind her. Back yards. Cold walls. Tiny gray-green leaves on
the thin tree brushing the window. Em’s handkerchiefs, stockings, hung
up to dry.
“Thank you, Jen, but I don’t need anybody.”
Genevieve would not be rebuffed.
“Em, what frightful things have happened in these few days?” Her eyes
filled. “You haven’t a cent. You don’t have to tell me. Eating this
way. Your friends--I’m--”
“Not at all, Jen, all the frightful things happened before.” I don’t
want money. I could go out.
Genevieve’s strong wise eyes in her perplexed little face. She did not
dare ask questions, she was baffled. Life horrible--we’ve got to save
her--
“Michael has actually taken a job with his connoisseur, as secretary,
of course there’s no work attached to it--Blanche and her John are
to be married, just think, poor man!--Mark has sold four stories and
already spent all the money.” Genevieve pretended that something to
interest was needed. She was talking for opportunity. “Tit is in love
and has written an awful poem to his Columbine, who’s a pretty little
idiot. Who with brains could stand Tit? He never felt anything real in
his life--I saw Les a day or two ago, he’s looking rotten.” She glanced
keenly at Em for her effect. “Women are terrible creatures, Em, we
want the moon. Have you painted any since you came here?” Genevieve
paused for breath, her hands still holding Em’s. What must I do? Her
own fastidiousness would not let her go further with Em’s futile
reticences. I must tell Les.
“No,” said Em vacantly. They blame me. They’re sorry for Les. I have no
one.
“You’d smile at the pretty girl who now adorns my walls--magazine
cover--I posed for it in a mirror. It does amuse me when I think of my
serious art-student days. Life grinds us--”
Genevieve talked on industriously, believing that she was doing good.
She said nothing of her own worry, of Stuart’s terrible depression.
Her shallow cynical snapshots were the same they had always been, her
beautiful feeling was unchanged, but Em read into it that the last
approval had been removed. They’ve gone back on me. Les is right. I’m
unfitted for human life. I’m alone.
Genevieve went away, miserable. Her warm kiss left Em cold. Enmity. Les
is theirs. Being an idealist saves lots of trouble! In America a lack
of sentimentality is more embarrassing than a lack of money. But Em
was still uncontaminated. I’ll be myself! She dressed with trembling
fingers and went out. She forgot her hollow cheeks, her almost
emaciated form, forgot that she looked ill and piteous. It was growing
dusk. She had no plan. She almost ran along the streets. She did not
know where she was. Men looked at her. She had visions of men devouring
her with their eyes. She was naked in their arms. Mitra! In the middle
of the Square she met him. She was oblivious to the people about them.
He smiled coldly, a smile for himself. His hardness was something
precious to her. She needed his simplicity of selfishness. At least
he wants my body. She stood looking boldly into his opaque eyes, she
opened and shut her mouth.
“Speak!” he commanded shortly.
“Mitra, do you want to love me? Take me.”
His abysmal vanity had waited. His immobile eyes were like black beads.
There was no move, no gesture. He almost whispered.
“Little red snake, you ought to be killed. If your naked body knelt
before me I would not touch it.” He moved slowly away, his face
unchanged.
Em wanted to laugh hysterically. Not even a harlot without pay. She
walked unsteadily back to her room. Some place to hide. Away from the
Village--away from all the world!
When she went in, Les was there. His responsibility for her would not
die. He wanted nothing else. He could not keep away. His conscience
dragged him back. His glance was troubled. Her eyes.... He took her in
his arms. She was cold and trembling. Her eyes stared and her mouth
was loose. They both felt an unspoken horror of the poverty-stricken
little room. Les blamed himself for her being there.
“Em, we have nobody but us.” He held her tenderly. “Em, let’s be good
to each other--won’t you? Em--” He sobbed once as her cold face touched
his. “Em--I--let’s not expect too much--Em--let’s--” He could not say
anything more. He refuses to resent, she thought with vague surprise.
She scarcely had heard his words. He helped her to remove her coat and
hat. The room was cold, he lighted a little kerosene stove and sat
down, pulling her to his knees. “Won’t you come back, Em? Oh, Em--” He
leaned against her and cried as a punished child cries.
She tried to speak. Why don’t I say anything?
“All right,” she answered at last. Her voice sounded far off. She could
not realize she had said it. Life was too dim.
“Shall we go now?” he asked gently. He was careful. He knew no one had
ever forced Em.
“Don’t make me do anything. Don’t make me go now. Don’t--” I can’t see.
I must think, I must think. Who is taking me now? Men--He pities me. I
can’t be pitied.
The scrawny woman was moving warningly in the hall outside. Les rose
and put on his big overcoat.
“When, Em?” He kissed her soothingly. She stared at him blankly. I am
blind. Is he here? Who wants me? “Shall I come in the morning?” His
voice is so kind! Am I sick? “Shall I come in the morning?” he repeated.
“No, not then. No, not then.” What does he want? I can’t do anything.
“When, Em?” he insisted, his arm around her. The light from the
oil-stove, like a dancing flower on the wall behind her, annoyed him.
It was all unreal to him, too, but he ignored the feeling.
“Some time. I don’t know.” Are we dead? Why is it all dark?
“Tomorrow night, then?” His experience misled him, he should have
carried her away.
“All right.” Em was numb.
“We’ll go to dinner together.” He was kind. Hope would cure her.
Why is he always the same? She was perplexed. No, I want him to be that
way. What does it mean? Les kissed her again and went out. I can’t
think. She lay down on the bed, her clothes on. I can’t think. What is
the matter? I’m tired.
2
Les set out from Jane Street after breakfast, peddling hack-work,
timely stuff, special articles, feature stories, human interest,
captions, bunk. Why? Was there still courage? There was no success!
Yawning girls, irritable editors, insulting advertising managers.
He went back to the studio. Crushed and discouraged. The fat Polish
janitress handed him a cablegram.
_“Mlle. E. Tyler.”_
“Bad news it is not?” the janitress said, eyeing the envelope fearfully.
Les opened it. Part of the words started out at him.
_“Vos peintures--honneur--grand prix--mes compliments--Lepelletier.”_
“No, it’s good news!” exclaimed Les joyfully. “Mrs. Drane has just had
some great luck.”
“I will be glad for you,” replied the woman shyly. She was, however,
already condemning Em for her absence.
Les ran up the stairs and threw down his portfolio, then descended with
all his speed to the street again and started happily for Em’s place.
I must write Carl about it--and we’ll get Jen and Stuart and the whole
bunch and have a big blowout tonight. Em is--Now she can paint. I can
write.... It began to drizzle. I won’t believe it’s over. Something
outside us will save us. It’s all right now. The rain increased. Golden
liquor of rain ... wind dallying with the mists.... We are safe. The
trees guard the streets.... We’ll go away now, and work at last. Our
star has bowed.... He felt delirious--happy delirium. Happy. We haven’t
been happy in so long. We must!
Something in Les made him whistle gayly as he strode quickly along.
3
Em was in her hall bedroom. The sunlight made a golden pool on the
faded carpet. She looked out into the back yard. The lonely tree, young
leaves prematurely blackening and shriveling, half-washed clothes
hanging to dry.
She rose and rearranged her dress neatly, brushed out her hair. I will
think now. The Village--Howard--Algeria--Mitra--who--
Les. She knew she was a victim of his sacrifice. I destroy him. She
laughed. That is life. Eat and grow fat! I’m so sorry for people.
Les. Meaningless acceptance. The land of reticence. A receiver of the
dead! Oh, I can’t be invisible with them before me! I must live or kill
life! The fear of fear. Iron hand, I’m choking--I must die. Then I
won’t worry him--or anybody. I’ll be tranquil and sure, like him.
I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not, something hurts me so, round and
round! My work is gone forever--gone--Oh, don’t everybody go away from
me! Anything, that is like love! Silver gong--ring!--ring!--Em was in
the power of the unknown.
Les’s secret peace. She was sure that when it was over she could rest.
She felt she could not leave the room until it was done. Something
kept her from putting it into words. She sat down to think it out.
Trying to think--A belated fly buzzed feebly behind the curtain. The
clock annoyed her with its irrelevance. Noises from the street bothered
her. She tried to make herself unconscious of them.
I must think. She sat rigid, her knees drawn together in a narrow
posture, her hands clenched, her white knuckles peering at her like
white eyes. She was ashamed that she could not live. She stared
dizzily, her eyes wide, the pupils unseeing, then her unsteady gaze
came back. I’m not going to die. She tried to convince herself, looking
dumbly at her strained hands, only half perceiving them.
Her breath stopped as the memory of the night she left Les came again.
The thought of death was so much easier than the thought of that night.
Her cheeks were gray under their splashes of rouge. Hatred leaped to
her head. Her hands were tortured. She swerved like one who is struck.
Her body jerked involuntarily. Light life! Lives of--what? Bohemian
death. She rose and turned on the gas and flung herself on the narrow
bed.
There was a gentle hissing sound. The indefinable smell of the close
room mingled with the smell of the gas. It did not penetrate her
understanding. She imagined she was shrinking up. She loved death and
she was afraid of it. I am dead. I could endure no more. Her senses
became unbearably acute. Every thread in the curtains was intense. She
moved slightly. It seemed as though Les had touched her. She spoke
tenderly as if they were alone.
“Les--Les--”
Iron hands again on her breasts. She whimpered, little inarticulate
sounds in her throat. She hated herself for dying.
Her cramped hands unclenched, they were flushed and the nails were
blue. A gentle color had come back to her cheeks and her eyes were
clear, beautiful violet rings under them, tiny freckles over the bridge
of her delicate nose. Her pale lips drooped apart wistfully, a bar of
sunshine leaped between the curtains and trembled on her white teeth.
The power of violence made her beautiful.
An hour later a knock on the door and Les’s jubilant voice.
“Em! Em!”
4
At San Francisco Les found a tramp clearing for Suva.
The ship goes out.
Clotted sky ... night closing eyes of the sun with soft fingers ...
fold giant wings ... buoy ... bells of death ... dead bury their dead
... fame!... art is dead ... a wordless Book ... moon pour balm from
your pale cup....
_“... white memory
Of a tropic sea,
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.”_
Morning. Above, gay clouds. Chariots of the air ... the unknown isles
... a kind place ... hills of amethyst ... more life, more life ... the
palimpsest ... cool medicine of the ideal ... arms of peace ... moons
like breasts ... the finger-tips of the holy Spirit ... I don’t need
Carl....
This was his reward.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
- In section III-V-2 there are a few lines of verse with strange
hyphenization. They have been maintained.
- New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
- Some clear typographical and spelling errors have been corrected.
- The table of contents was tweaked from the original for this
edition to include a list of the sections in each chapter
- Text between _underscores_ represents italics.