LONGINGS
The days at Van de Vere's grew gradually into a year, into two years,
into nearly three. From assistant to Virginia Van de Vere I became
consultant, from consultant, partner finally. Van de Vere's grew,
expanded, spread to the house next door. To the two V's upon the
door-plate was added at last a third. Van de Vere's became Van de Vere
and Vars.
My life, like that of a child's, assumed habits, personality, settled
down to characteristics of its own. I remained with Esther in Irving
Place, in spite of Virginia's urgent invitation to share her apartment,
adding to the room an old Italian chest, a few large pieces of copper
and brass, and a strip or two of antique embroidery. I preferred Irving
Place. It was simple, quiet, and detached.
I came and went as I pleased; ate where I wanted to and when; wandered
here and there at will. Evenings I sometimes went with Esther, when she
could leave the book, or with Rosa, or with Alsace and Lorraine, to
various favorite haunts; sometimes with Virginia to the luxurious
studios of artists who had arrived; sometimes with Mrs. Scot-Williams to
suffrage meetings, where occasionally I spoke; sometimes to dinner and
opera with stereotyped Malcolm; sometimes simply to bed with a generous
book. A beautiful, unhampered sort of existence it was--perfect, I would
have called it once.
My relations with the family simmered down to a friendly basis. They
accepted my independence as a matter of course. It had been undesired
by them, true enough, its birth painful, but like many an unwanted
child, once born, once safely here, they became accustomed to it,
fond, even proud, as it matured. I spent every Christmas with Edith in
Hilton, going up with Malcolm on the same train, and returning with
him in time for a following business day. I often ran up for a
week-end with Lucy and Will. Once I spent a fortnight with Tom and
Elise in Wisconsin. The family seldom came to New York without
telephoning to me, and often we dined together and went to the
theater. I ought to have been very happy. I had won all I had left
home for. I worked; I produced. At Van de Vere's my creative genius
had found a soil in which to grow. I, as well as Virginia, conceived
dream rooms, sketched them in water-colors, created them in wood, and
paint, and drapery. I had escaped the stultifying effects of
parasitism, rescued body and brain from sluggishness and inactivity,
successfully shaken off the shackles of society. Freedom of act and
speech was mine; independence, self-expression--yes, all that, but
where--where was the promised joy?
When I look back and observe my life, I see the sharp, difficult ascent
that led to my career at Van de Vere's with clearness. As if it was a
picture taken on a sunny day I observe the details of the first joyous
days of realized ambition. Just when my happiness began to blur I do not
know. Less distinct are the events that led to my discontent. Gradual
was the tarnishing of the metal I thought was gold within the pot. I
closed my eyes to the process, at first refused to recognize it. I
wouldn't admit the possibility of lacks and deficiencies in my life.
When they became too obvious to ignore, I searched for excuses. I was
tired; I had overworked; I needed a change. Never was it because I was a
woman, and just plain hungry for a home. The slow disillusion that crept
upon me expressed itself at odd and unexpected moments. In the middle of
a fine discussion with the girls of the old circle, the
"mountain-climbers," as Esther sometimes called us, the ineffectualness
of our lives would sweep over me. To my chagrin, immediately after an
inspired argument on suffrage a kind of reactionary longing to be
petted, and loved, and indulged occasionally would possess me. Sometimes
coming home to the room in Irving Place, after a long day at the shop, I
would be more impressed by the loneliness of my life than the freedom.
I hid these indications of what I considered weakness, buried them deep
in my heart, at first, and covered them over with a bright green patch
of exaggerated zest and enthusiasm. One never realizes how many people
are suffering with a certain disease until he himself is afflicted. I
didn't know, until my little patch of green covered a longing, how many
other longings were similarly concealed. As I became more intimately
acquainted with the members of our little circle I discovered that there
was frequently expressed a desire for human ties. I recalled Esther's
confession at the hospital. Her words came back to me with startling
significance. "A stark and empty life," she had said, "no man, no child,
no one to make sacrifices for--just my thoughts, my hopes and my
ambitions--that's all." Virginia, too--successful and brilliant Virginia
Van de Vere! For what other reason had Virginia adopted the curly-headed
Greek boy except to cover a lack in her life? For what reason than for a
desire for some one to love and to be loved by were Alsace and Lorraine
so devoted to each other? I read that a philanthropist of world renown,
a woman whose splendid service had been praised the country over, was
quoted as saying she would give up her public life a second time and
choose the seclusion and the joy of a home of her own. At first I
stoutly said to myself, "Well, anyhow, _I_ shall not run to cover. I
needed no one two years ago. Why should I now?" Why, indeed? A nest of
gray hairs, discovered not long after, answered me. They set me to
thinking in earnest. Gray hairs! Growing old! Creative years slipping
by! Good heavens--was there danger that my life would become stark and
empty too? I had chosen the mountain trail. Had I lost then the joy and
the comfort of the nestling house and curling smoke? There were still
interesting contracts of course, engrossing work. There was still the
success of Van de Vere's to live for, but the ecstasy had all faded by
the time I first realized that I was no longer a young girl.
Mrs. Sewall never came again to the shop after that single call. I was
told she was in Europe. I never heard from her. Her son--poor Breck--had
died at sea when a huge and luxurious ocean liner had tragically plunged
into fathoms of water. I learned that an English girl had become Mrs.
Sewall's companion. They were occupying the house in England. No doubt
they were very happy together. Sometimes it would sweep over me with
distressing reality that nobody really needed me--Breck, or Mrs. Sewall,
or self-sufficient Bob in his beloved West. Bob was fast becoming
nothing but a memory to me. If I thought of him at all it was as if my
mind gazed at him through the wrong end of a pair of opera glasses. He
seemed miles away. He must have come to New York occasionally but he
didn't look me up. I heard of his activities indirectly through Lucy and
Will. With the help of the women voters he had succeeded in cleaning out
a board of aldermen, and now the women wanted him to run for mayor. This
all interested me, but it didn't make me long for Bob. I wasn't
conscious of wanting anything specific. My discontent was simply a
vague, empty feeling, a good deal like being hungry, when no food you
can call to mind seems to be what you want.
Mrs. Scot-Williams of her own accord suggested a vacation of two months
for me. I know she must have observed that my spirits had fallen below
normal. Mrs. Scot-Williams said she was afraid I had been working too
steadily, and needed a change. I was looking a little tired. She invited
me to go to Japan with her, starting in mid-July. We'd pick up some
antiques for the shop in the East. It would do me a world of good.
Perhaps Mrs. Scot-Williams was right. Such a complete change might help
me to regain my old poise. I told her I would go with pleasure.
However, before I ever got started my loneliness culminated one dismal
night, two days before the Fourth of July. I had been away for two weeks
with Mrs. Scot-Williams on a suffrage campaign, combining a little
business en route. Mrs. Scot-Williams had had to return in time to
celebrate the holiday with her college-boy son and some friends of his
at her summer place on Long Island.
I arrived at the Grand Central alone, hot and tired. It was an
exceedingly warm night. I felt forlorn, returning to New York for an
uncelebrated holiday. I took the subway down town. The air was stifling.
It always manages to rob me of good-cheer. When I reached the room in
Irving Place I found Esther writing as usual. Esther had grown pale and
anemic of late. Her book had met with success, and it seemed to make her
a little more impersonal and remote than ever. I had been away two
weeks, but Esther didn't even get up as I came in. That was all right.
We're never demonstrative.
"Hello," she said, "you back?" She dipped her pen into the ink-well.
"I'm back," I replied, and went over and raised the shade. A girl all in
white and a young man carrying her coat went by, laughing intimately.
Oh, well! What of it? I shrugged. I had my career, my affairs, Van de
Vere's. "Want to come out somewhere interesting for dinner?" I suggested
to Esther.
"Sorry," she said. "Can't possibly. Got to work."
I stared at Esther's back a moment in silence. Her restricted affection
was inadequate tonight. I glanced around the room. It was unbeautiful in
July. Where was the lure of it? Where had disappeared the charm of my
life anyhow? Why should I be standing here, fighting a desire to cry? I
could go out and find some one to dine with me. Of course--of course I
could. I went to the telephone. Should it be Virginia, Rosa, Alsace and
Lorraine, Flora Bennett? None--none of them! My heart cried out for
somebody of my own tonight, upon whom I had a claim of some kind or
other. I called Malcolm, my own older brother. We had grown a little
formal of late. That was true. Never mind. I'd break through the reserve
somehow. I'd draw near him. There was the bond of our parents. I wanted
bonds tonight.
I got Malcolm's number at last. I was informed by a house-mate of
his that my brother had gone to a reunion with his people for over
the Fourth of July. His people! What a sound it had for my hungry
soul. His people! _My_ people, too, bound in loyalty by identical
traditions. I, too, would go to them for a day or two. There would
probably be a letter for me.
I went to my desk and glanced through my waiting mail. There was
nothing, absolutely nothing. I looked through the pile twice. A family
reunion and they had not notified me! I had become as detached as all
that! I glanced at Esther again. She was scratching away like mad. I
heard the drone of a hurdy-gurdy outside. I would not stay here. The
thought of a holiday in Irving Place became suddenly unendurable. I must
escape it somehow. There was a train north an hour later. My suitcase
was still packed.
"Esther," I said quietly, "I believe I'll go up to Hilton for the
holiday. I don't seem to be especially needed here."
"Mind not interrupting?" said Esther, scratching away hard. "I'm right
in the midst of an idea."
I picked up my suitcase, and stole out.