He returned from his father-in-law's automobile and entered with Ware.
The chauffeur started off and Basine leaned back in his seat. He
wondered at Ware's hospitality. The man was one of the outstanding
powers of the city, incredibly ramified through banks and corporations
and public utilities. He wondered what his connection with Gilchrist had
been. The traction baron--a title given him by the newspapers--sat in
silence beside him as the procession got under way. Basine's curiosity
began to answer itself. He found himself vaguely on his guard.
"I hadn't intended going to the cemetery," Ware announced after they had
been riding a few minutes. "I don't believe much in such
demonstrations."
"Neither do I," Basine answered. He was wondering if it were possible to
escape his duty to the family. There was such a crowd he might not be
missed at the grave.
"Would you mind if we turned out at one of these streets and drove to
the club," Ware asked deferentially.
Basine hesitated. He had noticed the invitation in the remark. Ware,
whom he had only met once before, was inviting him to the club. Why? A
desire to attach himself to Ware abruptly edited his doubts concerning
the propriety of his absence.
"I'd just as soon," he answered. The chauffeur was given directions. The
remainder of the ride was passed in silence.
"I thought we might have lunch here," Ware explained as they seated
themselves in front of a window overlooking the boulevard. It was
raining. The empty street gleamed and darkened with rain.
"Most of the forenoon is gone anyway," Ware added. "Have you an
engagement?"
"Thanks, I haven't," Basine answered. They sat sipping at highballs a
servant had brought. Basine watched the rain and a figure scurrying past
below the window. About this time they were lowering Gilchrist into the
ground. No one would ever see his face again.
"Pretty sad about Gilchrist," Ware murmured as if aware of his thought.
Basine's attention returned to the traction baron. The man wanted
something. Or why should he seek him out? An anger came into his mind.
Who was this man Ware that he could pick him up and cart him to a club
and buy him a highball--and expect to impress him, Basine? And for what
reason? The man wanted something.
The idea had become a conviction. He sensed it now through the memories
of the morning. Ware had led up to it dexterously. A nod at first. Later
a few remarks about the weather. Finally an invitation to ride with him
to the cemetery. Ware had never intended going there. That had been a
ruse to--kidnap him. Basine frowned. Well, he was kidnapped. And he
would find out why. Find out directly.
Ware was looking at him with a smile. Basine saw something in the smile
that increased his anger. A sudden wave of emotion, as if he were going
to strike the man, propelled his thoughts out of him. He heard himself
talking in a precise, indignant voice and regretted it at once. But the
words continued:
"You're a rather busy man, Mr. Ware. And so am I. What did you want to
ask me?"
Ware nodded slowly and thrust out his lower lip.
"Exactly," he murmured. "I wanted to speak to you about something."
"Well...." He paused on the word but Ware remained silent. He would have
liked to out-silence the traction official but after a pause, a
nervousness possessed him. "Well, let's begin now," he said. "What is it
you want?"
He felt the crudity of his question and winced inwardly. But ... the
thing was said. He would fellow through in that tone, then. He tightened
his features and leaned back in his chair, his eyes deliberately on the
face of his host. He had embarrassed Ware. He could sense that through
the man's poise. His poise was only a stall. Well and good. There was
nothing for him, Basine, to be embarrassed about. He felt elated after
all with the way he had handled the thing.
"I want to talk to you about a rather delicate matter," Ware began.
Basine nodded. He held the trumps. He had only to sit back and this
traction baron would begin to mumble, his celebrated poise would begin
to disintegrate.
"I'll be as direct as you, Judge," he continued. "I see that you don't
like beating around the bush. Neither do I. But I didn't know. As I
said, the thing is a rather delicate matter and I want you to take my
word for it, that whatever you say in way of reply will in no way change
my opinion of you. It's a thing to be said and then forgotten, if
necessary, by both of us. Do you agree?"
Basine nodded.
"It's about the Hill case," Ware lowered his voice.
"The Hill case?" Basine stared.
"On your calendar, Judge. The violinist suing for $50,000. Hurt by
falling off a street car. I thought you knew the case."
"I remember it now, Mr. Ware."
"Well, the man hasn't a case at all. But it's a jury trial and, of
course, juries sometimes think out things in an odd way. Now what I'm
getting at is this. This particular suit doesn't disturb us much. But
the anti-traction press is going to give it a great deal of publicity.
And what we're interested in is the effect of the suit. You understand?
The town is full of cranks and schemers always trying to get rich by
suing some big utility corporation. And if this man Hill wins his case,
why it'll mean another hundred cases all as preposterous as his on our
hands. Do you follow me?"
Basine nodded.
"I told you it was a rather delicate subject," Ware smiled. "And I would
never have thought of broaching it if I wasn't sure you would look at it
in the light it's offered, you understand? I don't mean I'm asking a
judge to do anything outside the facts or to go out of his way to hand
us anything. That's dishonest and absurd. The thing is, as you'll see
for yourself when the case starts, that this man Hill is an impostor
trying to hold us up. We'll prove that to your entire satisfaction. What
I'm getting at is that there's the jury and you know the attitude of
juries these days toward corporations. They hold against us regardless
of evidence. Now what I'm after is to see we get a fair trial and it
lies in your province to help us."
Basine leaned forward and spoke with difficulty. His anger had grown in
him.
"What is it you want me to do?" he asked.
Ware smiled disarmingly.
"Nothing at all, Judge, that you wouldn't have done of your own
volition. I want you, if you are convinced such a course is a just one,
to take the case from the jury and throw it out of court. Now, wait a
minute. I see you're angry and, as I said, the matter in a way is rather
delicate to talk about. But come, I'll say frankly, I'm interested in
you. We need men like you. Quick, intelligent and able to see their way.
The progress of the city depends upon such men. You know Jennings?"
"Your attorney."
"Yes, in full charge of our legal department. There's another case for
you of an intelligent, quick-witted man, scrupulously honest but not an
ass. Six years ago Jennings was a judge on the municipal bench. Wasted
... utterly wasted ... today--"
Basine interrupted, his voice harshened.
"An analogy. I see. Thanks."
He stood up. Ware reached out his hand.
"I don't think you quite understand me," he murmured.
"Perfectly," Basine answered. "And I've given my word that whatever I
understood would be forgotten."
Words welled into Basine's mind. An almost uncontrollable impulse to
confound his host with a violent denunciation struggled in him. He would
tell this traction baron what manner of man he, Basine, was. And what
the dignity of his position as judge was. He would throw the bribe back
into the man's teeth. He would declaim. Virtue. Outrage. Creatures who
sought to use their power to influence justice. Who thought themselves
able to drag men of honor to their level by the promise of favors.
Basine remained silent. His eyes, grown lustrous, stared at Ware.
Careful, he must be careful not to protest too violently. That would
sound as if he were uncertain. No protest at all. A contemptuous
silence. That was more effective. The sort of thing Ware would
understand, too. And remember. With a deep breath that sent a tremor
through his body, he nodded.
"Good day," he said and turning his back abruptly, walked out of the
club. He frowned at the unctuous bell boys and doorman.
Still raining. Basine walked swiftly, unaware of destination. His mind
was filled with emotions. Indignation grew in him. Ware had offered a
bribe. There was something in the thing that slowly infuriated him. It
was an affront, an attempt at domination. The man had said, "I'm better
than you. I can bribe you to do what I want." His spirit revolted. So
that was the way to power, eh? Listening to reason when the big wigs
spoke? Well, they could go on speaking till doomsday. But they couldn't
talk to him like that ... and get away with it.
The anger slipped from him. He had refused. An elation halted him. He
was an honest man! The fact surprised him. He stared with pride at the
street. The street held an honest man, a man able to say "no" to
temptation.
A tardy appreciation of his righteousness overpowered him. He had
something inside him now like a new strength. He could look at men
anywhere, anytime, and let his eyes tell them who he was and what sort
of man he was. Because he was sure of it himself. He was an honest man,
and sure of it.
It was not only inside him, this certainty, but he felt it like a mantle
over his shoulders. He walked on with a vigorous step. An unshaven face
paused before him and a beggar mumbled for a coin. Basine stopped full.
He stopped with deliberation and stared at the unshaven face, at the
shifty eyes and dirty linen. The beggar repeated his furtive mumble.
"No," Basine answered clearly. His voice was sharp. The man appeared to
wince. He slid away in the rain, his head down.
Basine walked on with an increased elation. He had never been able to do
that before, say "no" decisively to a beggar. He had usually said "no",
but hurriedly, furtively. That was because he was uncertain of himself.
Now he could say "no" or "yes" to anyone with decision. He had refused
a bribe and was an honest man and did not have to concern himself with
what others might think of what he said, because of this conviction in
him and because of this mantle in which he was wrapped.
He walked in the direction of the County Building. The rain felt fresh.
It was a moral rain, a virtuous comrade.
The incident in the club had, in fact, given Basine a character. He had
been unaware of his motives from the moment a sense of impending events
had come to him in the traction official's automobile. He had, when the
bribe came, acted as if following a lifelong code of ethics. Yet he had
surprised himself. His anger, his violent emotion of righteousness had
been inexplicable to him. He had never felt anything like that before.
Basine, in the car, had become aware vaguely of what awaited him. He had
recalled and repressed the recollection instantly, the Hill case pending
trial before him. And under the surface of his thought the entire drama
of the bribe had enacted itself in advance. Ware would offer him
something. Yes, and Ware was a man to know, one who could be of vital
use in his climb. If Ware asked him to do something it would be wise to
do it. He had been eager for the interview and a part of his eagerness
had been a desire to grant the traction baron the favor he was going to
ask.
But the incident had come during a curious crisis in Basine's life, a
crisis that had piled up since his youth. A consciousness had been
growing in him of his duplicity. He had been aware of it, but in a
different way, during his youth and the early years of his marriage. It
had not made him uncomfortable then. He had been able to lie with a
clear conscience. Ruses by which he established himself in the eyes of
others, not as he was but as he desired them to think him, had seemed to
him then the product of a practical, superior nature.
Slowly, however, his poise in the face of his own duplicities had begun
to crumble. He had begun to feel himself filled with the uncertainties
of a man forced to conceal too many things from himself. Fitting his
hypocricies and lies into worthy necessities had become too complex a
business, demanding too much of his energies.
The inner situation in which Basine found himself as he matured had in
no way changed his nature. He had gone ahead as always, stumbling
finally into a climax of deceits in his relation with the young woman he
had hired as his secretary.
In the five months she had worked for him he had been in love with her
but had managed to withhold the fact from both of them. He had invented
exhaustless explanations for his interest in her, for his desire to be
near her, for the increased aversion that had grown in him toward
Henrietta and his home.
The crisis had accumulated and reached a head during the services in the
Gilchrist home. Here his pent-up self-repugnance, his growing impulse to
expurgate the duplicities of his life, had found a minor outlet in the
sudden religious faith that had possessed him after his half-hour of
doubts. Ware's bribe had come opportunely. Basine's inexplicable anger
on sensing the impending bribe, had been his self answer to the eager
desire to comply that had struggled to assert itself in him.
And when the man had begun the actual words that meant bribe, he had
seized on the situation as a vindication. Opportunity to rehabilitate
himself, to wipe out with a single gesture the clutter of dishonesties
which were beginning to inconvenience him. He had embraced it and
emerged from the club a man, remade. No longer an inwardly shifty Basine
able to rise to righteousness only by avoiding his memories. But a
Basine with a platform inside him on which he might stand fearlessly.
The platform--I am honest. I refused a bribe--had erected itself over
the complex memories of himself. They were obliterated now.
He entered his chambers with a serious happiness in his heart. A miracle
had happened and he had been given absolution--by himself.
16
Ruth Davis was at her desk. She looked up eagerly as he entered. Basine,
hanging up his coat and hat, felt a businesslike desire to explain
matters to her. He was an honest man, done with subterfuges.
He would explain to her that it was no longer possible for her to
continue in his employ. Use correct but kindly words. He was an honest
man. He wanted to impress himself and everybody else with this fact.
Even Ruth. He had no thought of impressing it on Henrietta. Henrietta
would only be surprised to hear he was an honest man. Because she had
always believed it anyway.
But he would like to tell Ruth, because it would raise her opinion of
him; fill her with a great pride. A sad pride, of course, since it meant
their separation. But she would go away loving him even more because of
his honesty that had put an end to his love for her.
The course, however, was impossible. It involved a ludicrous situation.
Because he had never said he loved her and she had been as silent as he.
And so telling her all these very fine things would make it necessary
for him to say first, "I have loved you." And then to add, "But I don't
love you any more. I can't."
It was two o'clock. Time for the Judge to take his place on the bench.
Basine arose from behind his table with a sense of anti-climax. Nothing
had happened. He was going back to his place on the bench again. Poor
Gilchrist lay hidden forever and Ware had tried to bribe him and he had
proven himself a man of astounding integrity. And he had overcome a
growing infatuation for Ruth Davis. Yet nothing had happened.
"Shall I retype the Friday speech, Judge?" Ruth inquired as he hesitated
before her desk. He looked at her as if it were difficult to focus his
attention on her. He was preoccupied. A man of many preoccupations who
found it hard to notice little things around him.
"Oh yes, the speech," he agreed. "Type it. And if there are any mistakes
change them to suit yourself."
He walked out of chambers. Ruth turned to her typewriter and prepared to
set to work. But as the door closed behind Basine she stopped. She
removed a small mirror from a drawer and studied her face in it. She
leaned back in her seat and sighed. She felt too restless to work.
With her white brows frowning, she sat looking at the keys of her
machine. A miserable restlessness, this was, that never went away. At
night she lay awake in the room she had chosen since becoming
financially independent of her family. And a loneliness gnawed in her
heart. It was because she loved him.
"Yes, I love him," she repeated to the keys of her machine.
He was not like other men. There was something intimidating about him.
He had never spoken to her in a friendly tone. His eyes had never become
intimate.
During the five months she had been his secretary he had kept aloof. A
strange, unbending man consumed with ambition. His ambition was an
awesome thing. There was a directness to it. He worked day and night,
always planning for something. His engagements crowded each other. She
hardly knew the man. She knew only an ambition that kept pushing
tirelessly forward.
There had been no talk between them except business talk. And yet,
somehow he had given himself to her. Despite his aloofness and the
sternness of his manner, she had felt herself coming close to him,
closer than to anybody else she had ever known. And men were no exciting
novelty to her. They had held her hand and fumbled around with ambiguous
words. They talked art, politics, women, not because they were
interested in these things but because they wanted you to be interested
in what they thought of them. She had kept her virginity without
difficulty. The half-world of art and jobs enthused her. But it did not
stampede. A practical side of her remained dubious about the groping
ones she met in the studios. It was hard to pick out the real ones from
the fourflushers. She had discovered this. Because the real ones didn't
know they were real. Any more than the fourflushers knew they were
spurious. They all gabbled and wrote, painted and gabbled, and there was
no difference to them.
About the men she had noticed one thing. Their egoism was the egoism of
ideas. They were better than others, they thought, because of the ideas
in their heads. They were excitedly snobbish about these ideas as people
are snobbish about clothes. But they weren't better than others because
they were they. They were always leaning on things to make them feel
superior. Radicalism was a series of ideas that they picked up because
they felt a superior intellectualism in them.
Ruth had started thinking in this direction after listening to Levine,
Doris' friend. She had felt something of the sort before. But Levine,
with his almost oily pessimism, who talked always as if he were selling
something, had made it clear.
"The women who go in for revolt," Levine had said, "Hm, that's another
story. They're not interested in egoism. Because as yet there isn't a
highly developed caste system among women. They still kind of herd
together as a sex and they try to impress each other only with their
superior artificialities--as to who has the most doting husband, the
nicest times, the most accomplished servants.
"But men--there you have something else, don't you think? And the men we
know--the hangers-on around here, comical, eh? You can almost see them
bargain hunting for ideas. They don't stand up on their own feet and let
out yaps. They keep crawling inside of new ideas. They keep using ideas
as megaphones to proclaim their own superiorities. Little men playing
hide and seek inside of big ideas. Using ideas about art and life as
kids use pumpkin heads on Hallowe'en. To frighten and impress the
neighbors. Another simile--borrowed finery, eh? Ah, they're all fools.
It's hard to be much interested in people unless you're a poet. If
you're a poet then what you do is ignore people and go down like a
deep-sea diver to the bottoms of life. Down there it's interesting. Yes,
growths like on the ocean floor."
As a contrast to these men, gabbling in her ear and fumbling with her
hands, Basine had interested her at once. At first she had accepted the
way he ignored her as a natural attitude. Later, he would become
friendly and she looked forward to his friendship. It would be
interesting to know what an egoist like Basine thought about things. His
ideas were obviously rather stupid, but then--there was something else.
Strength, determination. He wasn't like the intellectuals, continually
losing themselves in new ideas and parading around like kids in their
big brothers' pants. She disliked that kind of men. The longer you knew
them the more unreal they became. Until finally, when you knew them
through and through it was like knowing an inferior edition of an
encyclopedia through and through. Everything was inside but it made no
sense. It had no direction. A jumble of ideas and informations--but they
formed no plot, no man. They weren't really egoists--the intellectuals.
Men like Basine were.
But his aloofness seemed to increase with time. There had been no
natural evolution of friendship. She thought then, "He acts artificially
toward me. It's because he doesn't want anything to sidetrack him. Not
even friendships. He isn't quite human. He's like a machine that's
wound up. And he must run till he breaks down."
This image of Basine fascinated her. A man without heart, a cool will
feeling its way tirelessly toward power, a thirst for power that
increased rather than stated itself with success. When he'd been elected
judge, he had surprised her by asking, "Would you like to come along
with me to the County Building? The office doesn't include a secretary,
but I need one on my own account."
During the months she had gained an almost embarrassing insight into the
activities engulfing Basine. The man himself remained hidden,
non-existent. But the world in which he had obliterated himself became
vividly outlined for her. The intrigues, counter intrigues, the
complexities of his climb, these were open secrets to her. He seemed
shameless about them. Often when she watched him furtively as he wrote
out political speeches should would think, "Is there a man there?"
It seemed to her there was not. Only an ambition tirelessly at work. An
ambition with a keen, nervous face, sharp eyes, thin hands and an
eloquent voice. But something more. A man who didn't hide inside ideas
but who remained outside them, giving himself to nothing except his
consuming desire to utilize ideas for his own end. He remained outside
manipulating. He manipulated life. All for what?
Fascinated, she fell in love. When he came in where she was, her heart
jumped. When he talked to her, something contracted in her throat, and
frightened her. She had her day dreams. As the spring opened sunny
mornings over the streets, she would sit gazing out of the tall windows
and think of Basine. Her thoughts took an odd turn. They built up
scenes in which Basine lay defeated. Accidents had maimed him. Political
reversals had taken the heart out of him. He was ruined, poor, without
employment. She pictured such situations with relish. In them she
appeared as an understanding one. She would fancy herself coming to him
and shaking her head sadly and saying, "Poor man. I'm so sorry. But you
see ... you see where it all led? to this."
And she would fancy him smiling back with a romantic tiredness and
reaching for her hand and answering as if he were an actor with a
speech:
"Yes, my dear? I've been wrong. Ambition is wrong. I'm ruined. And it is
only proof that I was wrong."
And then, in her fancies, he would look at her tenderly and raising her
hand to his lips murmur, "Forgive me, Ruth."
The door of the chambers opened and Ruth looked up, startled. Paul
Schroder strode in. He looked jaunty. She smiled. He was one of Basine's
friends, and she liked him for that. He had been of the hard-working
loyal ones during Basine's campaign.
"Oh, nothing in particular," he said. "Thought I'd just drop in for a
smoke. How's his Honor, these days?"
"He's very fine," Ruth answered. Schroder shook his head.
"I'm afraid he's drying up," he grinned. "That's the trouble with men of
his type. Get their noses down to a grindstone and never have time to
look up."
Ruth blushed. That didn't sound like a loyal speech. She saw Schroder
smiling broadly at her.
"You're quite a champion of his," he was saying. "Well, well. Maybe his
Honor isn't as slow as I've been giving him credit for being."
From anyone else this would have been offensive, she thought. But there
was something pleasing in the accusation. She hesitated and then
returned his smile.
"You know as well as I, what kind of a man Judge Basine is," she
answered. "He's the kind every woman respects at first sight."
"Loves, you mean," said Schroder.
"Oh no, I don't think a woman could really love Mr. Basine," she smiled.
"He's too much wrapped up in himself."
"Well, I don't know then," said Schroder, "his wife puts up a pretty
good bluff then."
Ruth's smile left her.
"Oh," she said, "of course."
Schroder laughed.
"Well, well," he went on, "so you'd forgotten he had a wife. That's a
sweet kettle of fish. Such memory lapses are dangerous. Watch your step,
young lady. Look out."
He stood up and approached her and wagged a finger mockingly. In a way
Schroder annoyed her. He always made her feel juvenile. She could never
use any of her sophisticated phrases on him. Because he laughed too
loudly and if you retorted cleverly he always guffawed as if he had
trapped you into having to be clever. His manner always seemed to say,
"You can't put it over me. I know. I know...."
Ruth turned with relief at the sound of a door opening. Basine. This was
one of his habits, to appear suddenly and for no reason at all and walk
up and down the large room as if immersed in grave thought. She had
often wondered why he did this. She thought it was because the work on
the bench made him too nervous or because there were so many things
weighing on his mind that he needed a few minutes now and then to
straighten himself out.
But while thinking this she had always felt that his sudden appearances
had something to do with her. It was perhaps only a part of her vanity,
she mused, but she always had this impression--that despite his
indifference and sternness he was curiously attentive. No matter how
busy he was he never absented himself long. He was always returning and
walking up and down. It was odd, but she felt at times that he walked up
and down for her, to be near her.
"Hello Paul," Basine's eyes slanted up at him, his head slightly
lowered. A pose which gave him a pugnaciously concentrated air such as a
schoolmaster looking over the top of his glasses at an erring pupil
might achieve. "What do you want?" A disconcerting directness he
reserved for the embarrassment of his friends. He asked straightforward
questions, point-blank questions. His questions always had the air of
troops unafraid, wheeling in manoeuver to face the enemy.
"Nothing much, Judge. But your office is kind of restful."
Schroder rolled a kittenish eye toward Ruth.
"Oh!" Basine stiffened. "Hm."
Schroder winked at the girl. He came forward, and added, "All the
comforts of home, eh?" And dropped into a chair beside her.
He had the faculty of boyishness, a talent for intimacies. His trick
was a conscious thrust beneath the guard of women. He chose to ignore
the delicate fol de rols of pursuit, the pretense of formality. He
refused to recognize the barriers of dignity, strangeness, social
poise--but stepped through them with an easy laugh as if perfectly aware
of what lay beyond, and seated himself beside his quarry in the guise of
a mischievous boy asking to be congratulated for his boldness.
Women succumbed to this gesture, disarmed by its frankness, its pretense
to innocent juvenility. In this manner Schroder achieved within an hour
intimacies which came to other men only after months of laborious toil.
He threw a noise of laughter over the bantering innuendoes of his talk,
disguising boldness in its own obviousness. His sallies seemed to say,
"You have nothing to fear from us since we are not secretive. We are
cards on the table."
Women thought of him, "He's lots of fun. You don't have to pretend with
him. You can play and talk without feeling he's laying traps for you."
But despite the straightforwardness of the man they soon located the
overtone in his conversation. It lay in his eyes. His eyes never gave
themselves to his laughter. They seemed to watch avidly from behind
something. It was as if they were independent of his characterization as
a frankly mischievous overgrown boy. They were able to ask amazingly
indecent questions in the midst of his frankest outbursts. Women
invariably grew embarrassed under their stare. There was no defense
against the inquisitive impudence with which they announced the male's
concentration. Their gleam was like an unmistakable whisper--an
invitation.
Basine admired the man. But he remained oblivious to this side of him.
Schroder's female conquests had never interested the Judge. He had heard
of them and forgotten immediately. Now, however, memories returned.
Schroder was an unscrupulous animal. Basine looked at him with a
hopeless misgiving.
He noticed as Schroder and Ruth talked that he seemed on far more
intimate terms with her than he. There was an _esprit_ between the two
as if they were comrades of long standing. His friend's familiarity was
a shock--as if he had caught him undressed, unexpectedly. Basine
listened to his talk with an aloof frown, as if he were unable to focus
his attention on the scene. He was thinking of something else--far-away
things, vast preoccupations.
"Loafing is an art. Don't you think so, Ruth?"
"I've never had time to find out."
"Hm. I'm teacher. Want me to be teacher?"
"Why yes, if you have time in your loafing."
"Time for you always, my dear." A contemplative stare at the girl. "What
would you say, Judge, if I fall in love with your charming secretary."
He laughed. Basine cleared his throat. He felt miserably out of this
sort of thing. He was shocked to hear Ruth giggle.
"Yes sir," Schroder continued. "And what are you doing this evening?"
"Nothing, Mr. Schroder."
"Well, why waste time? How about dinner and a show?"
"Really?" She glanced at Basine as if to declare him in on this give and
take. He was preoccupied, hardly observing what was happening. She
pouted.
"Cross my heart," said Schroder.
"Thanks very much. A very generous, if general invitation."
"Discovered!" Schroder laughed. "All right then. Six o'clock at the
Auditorium. Woman's entrance. I'll wear a red rose in my ear. Can't miss
me."
Ruth nodded.
"There you are, George," Schroder cried. "All done in a minute. And
tomorrow we'll be in love with each other. What'll you marry us for,
your Honor? Remember I helped elect you." A boisterous laugh that seemed
to mock the boastfulness and prophecies of the man and say of itself,
"I'm joshing all of you including me...."
Basine left them. His heart was heavy, uncomfortable. He sat on the
bench frowning at the scene. Eager lawyers whispering; a woman in a
green hat holding a handkerchief to her eyes; a bald-headed man on the
other side of the long mahogany table; faces for a background. A divorce
case. The woman weeping was a wife. The bald-headed one with the air of
a board of directors' meeting about him ogled his accusers with dignity.
He was a husband. The jury sat dolorously inattentive in the box. A
witness was testifying.
Other people's troubles. An interminable jawing back and forth--lawyers,
defendants, witnesses and more lawyers. Basine frowned. Other people's
troubles--and he had his own. This thing before him was an intrusion. At
best he had no sympathy for the interminable jawing that went on under
his eyes. He had grown passionately interested in what he called the
people. But when he thought of the people he thought of them as a
force, a group, an army standing with faces raised repeating certain
slogans--a vision that Doris had bequeathed him. The interminable
jawing, weeping, accusation and denial before him from day to day had
nothing to do with the people. About these individuals he was cynical.
And more, he was not interested.
The witness was testifying. The intimidating air of the judge seemed to
confuse her. Her confusion irritated Basine. He turned indignantly and
faced her with a bullying frown.
"What is it you're trying to say, madam? Did you see this man beat her?"
"Yes, your honor.... I.... I ... that is...."
Basine controlled his temper and grimaced humorously at the jurors whose
faces at once lighted with an appreciative smile. A fearless man, Judge
Basine, who couldn't tolerate the mumble mumble of legal technicalities
and who struck at the roots of things when he took charge of a witness.
... They were in the room behind him. Alone. An intolerable thought.
But, impossible to keep his thought away. His imagination like a
merciless flagellate, belabored him with fancies. Paul would teach her.
Lean over and kiss her. And she would kiss in return and whisper,
"Paul...." He was unmarried and good looking. Perhaps she was
heartbroken, too. He, Basine, had never spoken despite the light he had
recognized of late in her eyes. She was in love with him and filled with
despair because her love was useless. So now she would turn to Schroder
in desperation. She would try to forget him, Basine. It was logical.
Women forgot hurts in that way--by giving themselves to someone else.
The heaviness grew unbearable. Another man was touching Ruth. This was
unbearable. He couldn't stand it. But why? What difference? He
couldn't.... She was so beautiful. Another man's hands were desecration.
A weakness came to him. His heart darkened. What if she did, with
Schroder? They were probably kissing now. It had been hard to imagine
himself kissing her. To him she somehow seemed aloof, beyond possession.
But it was easy to imagine Schroder. Men and women put their arms around
each other and that was an end to aloofness.
He made an effort to pull himself together. Voices were droning around
him--other people's troubles. Faces thrust themselves tactlessly at his
eyes. He grew nauseated. He had never felt like this before. As if he
must do something despite his will. His will said, "Sit there. Don't
move. It's none of your business." But this other thing was pulling him
out of his seat and moving his body for him.
He clenched his teeth and muttered to himself, "She's no good. Wasting
my time on her!"
"That will be all for today," Basine muttered. He placed his hand
wearily over his forehead. This would make them think he was ill. His
clerk came forward.
"Anything wrong, Judge?" he asked with concern.
Basine shook his head with Spartan indifference to the mythical disease
consuming him.
"No," he said, belying his answer in its tone, "court is adjourned until
ten o'clock tomorrow."
He nodded briefly at the faces. The solicitous regard in the eyes of
attorneys and jurors reassured him. He was ill, very ill--that was it.
Of course, that was it. The eyes of the attorneys and jurors said, "You
are working too hard. You must be careful of a nervous breakdown. In
your prime too. Be careful."
He walked off the bench, his step unsteady. He was acting. But the fact
that his step was not authenticly unsteady was an accident--and
illogical. He felt it logical to walk unsteadily since everyone thought
him ill and on the verge of a breakdown.
"You'd better go home, Judge."
Basine nodded gratefully to his clerk. He opened the door to his
chambers. The sight of Schroder bewildered him. Schroder was still
there. He had his hat in his hand, though. Basine stared at his friend.
His heart contracted and his breath fluttered in his throat.
"What's wrong, George?"
"Nothing. Headache. Knocked off for the day."
Words were hard to speak. His eyes turned to Ruth. She was watching him.
Frightenedly, he thought. Had she done something? Kissed? They looked
guilty. He tried to find answers to the questions by staring at her. Was
she the same as she had been? Or had she given her lips? A vital
question. They were going out tonight together. Basine controlled
himself. He sat down at his desk and ran his hand wearily over his head.
"Well, so long," Schroder spoke. "Hope you feel better, George." A
pause. "See you later, Ruth."
See her later! They had no sympathy for his illness. They would go out
and laugh, hold hands, make love--despite his trouble. He sat brooding
over the cruelty of women. "Cruel. No finer feelings," he mumbled to
himself.
They were alone. Was he ill? What was it that had lifted him off the
bench? Nothing definite. A dark disorder in his mind, a heaviness in his
heart that had seemed part of the room. He wanted to moan. Yes, he was
sick.
"Can I do anything, Judge?"
He hated her. Her voice with its hypocritical concern. As if she cared
for him. After what had happened between her and Schroder ... see you
later ... and he called her Ruth.
"No, Miss Davis."
This was unbearable. He would insult her. There was relief in insulting
her, making her suffer for something, too. But she might go away if he
did. He couldn't go on with his work any more. Work was impossible. A
disease was active in him sending out dark clouds that choked his
thought and swelled his heart with pain. She might leave for good. Then
what could he do? Nothing. But why all this make-believe? He would tell
her he loved her. Simple. That would drain him of his pain. He stood up
and paced. She was at her desk, he noticed, eyes large and excited.
But he could do nothing, say nothing. He was impotent. Good God! he
must. How? No way he could think of. The thing was smothering him.
Before--days and weeks before--he had kept it down. But now it had slid
from underneath and was in his head. There was no outlet. He dared not
talk.
No thoughts were in his mind. Henrietta, his children, home, morality,
marriage, none of these was in his mind. But there was a restriction, a
wall he could not pass. There were things holding him with merciless
hands. They gripped at his body and thrust themselves like gags into his
mouth.
She had risen and was standing near the window. If he kept to his pacing
he must come near her. It was her fault. He was just pacing. She was in
his path. If he walked straight to the end of the room she would be in
his path. Why should he turn out for her?
He paused beside her. He must say nothing. It was talk that was
impossible. He stood looking at her until his eyes grew bewildered.
There was a moment in which he seemed to vanish from himself, as if he
had stepped bodily out of himself. His thought paralyzed with a curious
terror, he saw nothing. The moment of unconsciousness passed and he was
still alive and still on his feet. His voice lay under control in his
throat and the memory of his name sat like a perpetual visitor in his
thought.
But there was a change. A miraculous thing had happened. He was no
longer Basine. He was a stranger in a strange world. He was holding her
in his arms. An impossible sensation was in him. This was something he
couldn't believe. He wanted to look at himself. He had his arms around
her. But there was no woman in the circle of his arms. He was holding
something that let his delirium escape. Torments were emptying
themselves in the embrace. The miseries that had accumulated under the
surface of his months of resistance, were leaving him, flying from him.
His heart was growing unbearably light.
"Oh!" he murmured. Her arms had tightened and he saw her eyes approach
him. They were rapturous.
She was warm, intimate, close to him. Her lips, still piquantly
strange, were offering themselves. She was unlike everything he knew. A
startling vigor, as if he had been changed into a rampaging giant, swept
him as they kissed. He was great, strong. He could walk over the heads
of the world. He had no need for further embrace. He stepped away, his
face radiant.
Ruth looked at him in confusion. This was a new Basine. He frightened.
The mask was gone, the frown of preoccupation. She grew dizzy in the
light of his eyes. He was a stranger. What should she call him? But he
was talking to her in a voice that he seemed to have kept secret.... "I
love you, Ruth. I love you."
He laughed. She smiled uncertainly and felt that her face looked
awkward. She could see the lines of her cheeks bulging as she lowered
her eyes. This confused her and made her feel stiff. There had been
something of this sort a few minutes ago in Paul Schroder when he had
tried to take her hand. But now the thing she had noted calmly in
Schroder seemed a puny imitation. Here it was real. He was laughing,
softly, joyously. He was like a boy. Her heart filled with panic. She
put her arms quickly around his neck and pressed herself close to him.
The panic went out of her deliciously.
"George, I love you. I'm so happy."
They sat looking at each other, an excited smile in Basine's eyes. His
body was tingling. A new sense had come. It lived in his fingers. He was
holding her hand. His fingers were charged with an amazing energy. They
seemed to have become part of a different person. He was able to enjoy
the ecstasy that confused his fingers as if it were an external
emotion. The rest of him was clear, almost tranquil.
"Well," he said. It was still hard to talk. He was aware of
incongruities. He was not Basine talking, not the new Basine, not the
one whose fingers danced and throbbed. His voice belonged to other
Basines--other characterizations whose awkward ghosts fluttered
nervously in his thought. He would discuss this phenomenon. It was easy,
after all. Be honest. She was one with whom he could be astonishingly
honest. They were isolated. The world was a futility. There was an end
to make-believe now. It was all honest, tranquil, joyous. He began
again:
"Well, isn't it strange. I can hardly talk to you. I'm not used to us
yet. This way. I've loved you since I first saw you. But I've told so
many lies about that to both of us...." He paused to smile at her as if
asking her not to believe him a liar, or if she must--a liar in a high
cause--"that the things I want to say now seem like ... like the
contradictions of something. Of old lies ... in a way."
She nodded.
"Oh, I know," she whispered. A preposterous admiration of her
intelligence overcame him. Of course she understood! It was unnecessary
to talk to her. She had kissed and embraced him. She had felt the same
things he had. And now, their thoughts were alike. They were like one
person, having shared something that filled them. It was unnecessary to
talk. Because if he remained silent she knew he was thinking of her. A
charming sense of comradeship came to him.
"I feel," he said, "as if we were too intimate for words."
She nodded again and smiled.
"We'll make a holiday," he added. "Come, we'll go for a drive."
They embraced. This time he thought of Henrietta. Ruth was different
from his wife. Her shoulder blades felt different under his fingers. It
was impossible to think they were both women. His arms around Henrietta
meant nothing. His arms around Ruth now--he closed his eyes in order to
closet himself with indefinable sensations.
They emerged from the traffic of the loop. Basine at the wheel of his
newly purchased roadster dropped a hand on hers.
"I feel better like this," he said.
"Isn't it wonderful," she whispered.
He would have liked to tell her they were floating over buildings. But
he kept silent. Words were still self-conscious interlopers. The houses
moved away. A spring wind was in their faces. They were silent. The
pavements ended. Basine brought the car to a stop.
"I don't know what to do," he said. "I'm so happy."
He placed his arms around her. The touch of her body through his clothes
was a reminder of something. He gave it no words. They sat embraced,
their faces together and an unspoken laugh in their hearts. The sun was
high overhead. Basine tried to remember himself ... Henrietta, his home,
his position. Ah, banalities. He was proud. He was above remorse,
regret; above himself. There was nothing in the world as beautiful as
the moment he commanded.
Ruth leaned avidly against him as if seeking refuge in his arms. He sat
thinking. "It is right. Everything right. I've done nothing. No
compromise. Nothing. I'm happy. There's nothing to frighten me."
He felt released.
17
Summer lay like a Mandarin coat over the city. It was June. Warm,
sun-awninged streets glistened with ornamental colors. Women in gaudy
fabrics, men in violent hat bands, straws, panamas, striped shirts, sun
parasols like huge discs of confetti, freshly painted red and green
street cars, pastel tinted automobiles--all these tumbled like a swarm
of sprightly incoherent adjectives along the foot of the buildings.
The store windows like deaf and dumb hawkers grimaced at the crowds. Ice
creams, silks, swimming suits, and sport paraphernalia; jaunty frocks,
white trousers, candies, festive haberdashery, drugs, leather goods,
wicker furniture and assortments of lingerie like the symbols of
fastidious sins--all these grimaced behind plate glass.
The city was in bloom. People, perspiring and lightly dressed, sauntered
by the plate glass orchards. Summer filled the city with reminiscent
smells. Sky, water, grass scampered like merry ghosts through the
carnival of the shopping center. Warm, sun-awninged streets; ornamental
men and women--summer spread itself through the crowds, warmed the
bargain hunters, loiterers, clerks, stenographers, business men and
housewives into a half sleep.
They peered lazily at each other. Their mysterious preoccupations seemed
to have subsided. The sun made holiday in the streets and the high,
fluttering windows showered endless tiny suns on the air. The morning
held the unreal soul of some forgotten picnic.
Ten o'clock. Fanny Gilchrist turned with an inward sigh and walked out
of the crowded business street. This was LaSalle street and, concealed
in the buildings around her, were people who knew her and might see her.
Accidentally bump into her.
The crowds grew thinner and less familiar types of faces drifted by.
This was better. She wasn't exactly afraid. But what if someone did bump
into her accidentally? Then she would have to say where she was going
and, if she lied, perhaps they would insist upon coming along and
discover it. But that was foolishness. One never met people in streets
like that.
Men looked at her with casual interest, with insignificant enthusiasm,
as she walked by them. A bright-haired, shining-eyed young woman with a
body undulating softly under a grey and green trimmed dress; she seemed
to light up the dingy pavements. Other women passed lighting them up
also. Each new female illuminant was welcomed with thankful, greedy
eyes.
Her red sailor jauntily tilted and the silken gleam of her face were
like part of a luscious mask. She was a woman hurrying somewhere and
men, bored with other women, looked at her enthusiastically. She was one
of the many enigmatic ones, one of the many gaudy colored masks behind
which sex paraded its mystery through the sun-awninged streets. Eyes
ennuied with the memory of sex lighted eagerly in the presence of its
masks. The flash of ankles and the swell of thighs under pretty fabrics
were diversions even for moralists.
Schroder waiting patiently on a street corner watched the warm crowd.
She wouldn't come. Yes, she would. Well, another five minutes would
tell.
He saw her and his excitement changed. A leisurely smile came to his
face. His body relaxed. He was a connoisseur in rendezvous and his
enjoyment of the moment which witnessed her approach was deliberate.
Women in themselves did not interest him so much. Their
bodies--pleasant, yes. But after all--a finale. And one does not applaud
finales.
But now, watching her lithe figure hurrying toward him was a diversion
to be sipped at, contemplated in all its emotional detail, and enjoyed.
Later it would be this moment he remembered, if he remembered
anything--which was uncertain. For his memories which had in his younger
days glistened in his thought like a mosaic of eroticism, had of late
blurred to a monotone. He could remember women, liaisons, passion
phrases and great enthusiasms but, curiously, they seemed all identical.
To recall how one woman had sighed in his arms was to recall the whole
pack of them. As if the souls of his paramours and the manner of their
surrenders were contained completely in the recollection of any one
detail.
But despite his ennui, this moment of approach still delighted him. The
woman hurrying to his side was not yet a woman. She was still a mystery
whose inevitable and never varying sensualism was masked for a final
instant behind unfamiliar fabrics. There was a piquant unreality, a
diverting strangeness, as she smiled at him. She was somebody he did not
know. He was authentically bored with women. But for the moment it was
not a woman approaching--rather a new color of cloth, a new combination
of dress, a new species of social poise and gesture were presenting
themselves for ravishment. In these unfamiliar surfaces lay a tenuous
mystery as if it were these externals he was about to embrace. And in
the contemplation of this mystery, his interest revived itself. He
sighed. It was a mystery which would vanish shortly.
"Hello, dearest."
He greeted her softly, with regret. A quixotic impulse to turn and walk
away before she spoke had died in him.
Fanny was staring expectantly. He was familiar with the expression. Not
in her, but in others. This took away its charms. Married women were
nearly all alike. Full of distressing short cuts, with an irritating and
incongruous professionalism behind their bewilderment. What dolts
husbands must be to blunt women like that.
As he took her hand and felt her fingers clutch excitedly around his
palm he remembered in an instant the predecessors of her type. Full of
distressing short cuts. When they gave their hands they withheld
nothing. They denuded themselves with a look, with a handclasp. And the
subtlety of skirmishing seemed entirely foreign to them. When they
embraced it was with an appalling directness. Yes, in intrigue they were
all alike--all like precocious children; vague, bewildered children
mimicking the precisions of their elders and exclaiming with distressful
incongruity:
"Tut, tut. Let's come to the point. Let's get down to brass tacks and
stop beating around the bush."
Well, here she was and the scene was on.
"Am I late?"
"No, dearest. I was just a little early so as to enjoy the impatience of
waiting for you."
The nuance was lost upon her. Amorous women were a cold audience for
technique.
"I'm so upset. Do you mind?"
"Not at all, Fanny. Of course you're upset. But it only adds to your
charm."
He had long ago abandoned love-making tactics, sensing that women who
came to him were not particularly interested in tender pretenses. They
desired flattery, but direct and practical variants. This one was like
the others, flushed, eager, frightened and gay. He felt an exhilaration
as they walked toward the entrance of the unpretentious hotel around the
corner. A sense of conquest. It was nothing to be enjoyed in itself. But
if people knew, which they never could, alas, they would be awed by the
ease with which he accomplished such things. One, two, three meetings
and--here they were again. Paul Schroder entering a hotel with a woman
at his side.
"This isn't a bad place," he whispered. "I've already registered. Mr.
and Mrs. Paul Johnson. It's better if you know your name, of course."
Fanny stood tremblingly in front of the elevator cage as he walked to
the desk. She noticed his carelessness, the unselfconscious way in which
he smiled at the clerk and paused to buy some cigars. The fear that had
grown in her since she left her home appeared to be reaching a climax.
Her knees shivered under her dress and a catch in her throat made
breathing difficult.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," she repeated silently to herself, and
tried to understand the cause of her trembling. Even if there were
consequences--there was Aubrey. She smiled nervously. It was his fault.
He was a fool.
They entered the elevator. A sleepy boy shut the cage door after them.
Schroder gripped her arm and his fingers caressed the soft flesh. She
turned to him and smiled. She was no longer afraid. A shameless,
exultant light kindled in her eyes. She leaned against him with a shiver
as the elevator lifted slowly.
* * * * *
... They had decided to check out in time for her to return home for
dinner.
"I don't have to go up to the desk with you, do I?" she asked.
Schroder smiled tiredly.
"Oh no," he said, "you wait at the entrance with the property suit case.
Then we'll both take a cab and drive a few blocks. I'll get out with the
bag and you drive on home. It's simple."
Nevertheless the fear she had experienced in the morning returned as she
watched him go to the desk. In another minute it would be all over and
everything would be all right. But now--what if someone saw them? Bumped
into her accidentally. The lassitude which had filled her when she
locked the tumbled hotel room behind her, gave way to a curious panic.
Her tired nerves became unhappily alive.
"Why--hello, Mrs. Gilchrist."
She was unable to see the man for an instant. Her mind had darkened. "I
mustn't faint," she murmured to herself. She was looking at an unshaven,
dissipated face that smiled. As she looked her world seemed to be
falling down. Everything gone--ruined. Because a face was smiling. Tom
Ramsey. The man's name popped into her thought.
"Hello," she muttered.
Schroder approached and frowned. He took her arm and led her away. She
began to cry in the cab.
"He saw us. He knows. He'll tell everybody. Oh my God! Why did you come
up when you saw him? If you'd only realized. Oh, why did I do it? Now
everything's ruined. I'm lost."
She wept, knowing the futility of tears. An accident that seemed
provokingly unreal and soothingly unimportant--Tom Ramsey. Yet the name
was like a guillotine block on which her head lay stretched.
Schroder, annoyed, tried to console her.
"Who was it? Listen, pull yourself together. People always imagine
themselves guiltier looking than they are. He probably thought nothing
wrong."
"Tom Ramsey. Didn't you see how he looked at me? Oh, God, I'm sick."
"Who is he?"
"He used to be my mother's friend. But he went to the dogs. He's just a
tramp now. He isn't a gentleman."
Schroder sighed.
"Oh well," he said, "there's no use worrying. Come, put it out of your
head."
"I can't. Oh, I can't. Why did I do it. I'll kill myself if ... if
anything happens. Aubrey will.... Oh Paul, I feel sick."
He stared glumly at the back of the chauffeur's head. A nuisance. A
damned nuisance. His mind played with contrasts. A few hours ago she had
been shameless. Now she sat weeping. He thought of her as ungrateful and
grew angry.
"I'll step out now," he whispered. "Call me up tomorrow at the office,
will you? Nothing will happen. Please, be calm. It's all imagination."
He halted the cab and stepped out with the suitcase. She would feel
better, he knew, as soon as he disappeared. She would be able to
convince herself then that nothing had happened--that she was coming
home from a shopping tour.
"Good-bye. Call me up, dearest."
Fanny sat weeping as the cab moved away. Ramsey had seen her. A misery
too heavy for thought brought another burst of tears. She hated
Schroder. And herself, too. But most of all the ragged looking, unshaven
Ramsey in the lobby. Why had he come at just that moment? If they had
left the room ten minutes earlier. It was Paul's fault. He insisted on
combing his hair, and reading a story in the newspaper. If he hadn't
sent down for the newspaper in the middle of the afternoon. He didn't
love her or he wouldn't have thought of sending for it. She had laughed
at the time but it was an insult. He was a brute. If he had loved her he
wouldn't have wanted to read a newspaper and they wouldn't have met
Ramsey. She sat conjuring up dozens of trifling incidents which, had
they occurred, would have prevented the fatal meeting with Ramsey.
Then she smiled convulsively through her tears. It was about the story.
They had laughed at it in the room. "Judge Basine Launches Vice Quiz.
State to Investigate Problem of Immorality Among Women Wage Earners...."
"Why girls go wrong ... why girls go wrong," rumbled through her head
now and she laughed hysterically. Oh, that tramp of a Ramsey had spoiled
it all. Otherwise it would have been wonderful. And next week, too. But
perhaps he hadn't noticed anything. Of course he hadn't. Paul was right.
She dried her tears and looked into the twilighted streets. She had
planned her homecoming days ago. She would be ill, overcome by the heat
and excuse herself from the dinner table. A final chill shot through her
heart as the cab stopped.
She found herself entering her home with complete poise. It was almost
as if nothing had happened. Here were the familiar things of life. Her
home, Aubrey, the rows of books, the walnut library table. Nothing had
happened. For a moment she was amazed at the complete unconsciousness of
the day. Then smiling delightedly at her husband in a chair, a familiar
husband in a familiar chair, she removed her hat and approached him.
Leaning over the back of his chair she kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
He was her protector. Good old Aubrey, so familiar, so placid and
unchanged. If it only hadn't been for Ramsey everything would be so nice
now. But anyway, it wasn't so bad. She had been a bit hysterical.
"Where've you been, Fanny?"
She felt no twinge at the question. Instead an enthusiasm for the
situation filled her.
"To the matinee," she laughed. "Oh, I saw the nicest show."
She leaned forward and took his hand. Aubrey regarded her with a
petulant stare. Despite their years of marriage, she was still an
animal, gross and irritating.
"And I'm just starved," she exclaimed. "I was never so hungry in my
life."
She laughed, overjoyed at the truth of the statement and hurried
upstairs to prepare for dinner.
18
The manuscript had been found in the drawer where William Gilchrist kept
his collars. It lay underneath a number of loose collars.
With the death of his father a curious love for the man had come to
Aubrey. He remembered from day to day things his father had said, or
seemed to say. A sad, elderly man who lived secretly in his thoughts.
That was his father.
Like him, Aubrey now had a secret life that he lived only in his
thoughts, and this was slowly making him kin to the man who had died. In
Aubrey's thoughts dwelt a dramatic, startling figure--a gleaming,
hawk-faced thunderer; a lean Isaiah of burning phrases with an
eagle-winged soul beating its way toward God. This was Aubrey Gilchrist.
Not the Aubrey whom life had mysteriously deformed into an advertising
man, but an Aubrey triumphant who had risen above the petty turns of
Fate and burst upon a world--a voice crying forth astounding phrases
against the evil of man's ways.
The inner characterization in which Aubrey was gradually immersing
himself remained a vague though warm generality. He was able to
visualize the Thunderer and able to enjoy the results of his genius. In
his day dreams he pictured this inner one bringing the world to his
feet. Books were being written about him, magazines and newspapers were
filled with his praises and interpretations, and men and women
everywhere discussed his ascent in awe. He was a conqueror--a bloodless
Napoleon and a martyrless Jesus. A prophet whose genius was lifting men
out of the mire.
What the message was which this inner Aubrey was spreading through the
world, what the phrases were that ignited the souls of men, were not
contained in his imaginings. He approached them from a critical and not
creative angle--his fancies presenting him with descriptive self
praises. He composed rambling articles in his mind celebrating his
triumphs. This inner Aubrey was eloquent, electrifying, unassailable;
men and women wept over his writings and repented; cities reared statues
to him, and all places sang his glories. The whole thing had begun as a
game, deliberately invented to occupy the leisure of his mind. But he
had elaborated on it and it had grown almost by itself. Now it
preoccupied him to an alarming degree.
The manuscript in his father's collar drawer had given him a shock. He
had kept it from his mother, assuring himself that such a course was for
the best. It was an odd document for his father to leave behind.
As he sat in his study a week after the funeral reading it for the first
time, Aubrey grew frightened. It seemed to him that he was looking at
his father--for the first time, that the man who had till now been a
half enigmatic figure to him, stood at last in the room, strong and
alive. The thing was a primitive type of novel--discoursive, gentle,
Rabelaisian. It recounted the mental and physical adventures of an
Elizabethan philosopher in a succession of unrelated episodes. There was
a caress in the sentences, a simplicity in the narrative that translated
itself into cunning realism.
When he had finished the reading, Aubrey stared at his father's portrait
hanging over one of the book cases. The reality of the manuscript held
him. He felt bewildered. It had for some three hours lifted him out of
the present and immersed him in scenes and amid a company of naive
ancients, starkly alive. A dormant literary sense awakened in him. The
thing was a work of art, as moving, as authentic as Apuleius or
Cervantes. But he would put it away. He hid it in a private drawer.
Its memory, however, grew in his mind. During his day at work the
thought of the thing his father had written came to haunt him, as if it
demanded something. He felt closer to it than he had ever felt to his
father. There was something distasteful, though, about the intimacy.
"That was his soul," he would explain over to himself. "He lived that
way inside. It was like writing a biography of secret dreams for him.
It's strange. We're all like that. Even I. There was something odd in
father. Funny we never guessed. It must have been written a paragraph at
a time over years and years. It was a sort of diary."
And he would recall excerpts from the book--gentle skepticisms, childish
animalisms. But the tone of the thing which he could never put into
words was what haunted him most. Over the naive acrobatics of plot and
lively preenings of idea, an unwritten smile spread itself, a pensive
tolerance that seemed to say, "Yes, yes, life has been. This tale is a
curious jest. An epitaph over an empty grave. Yesterday is unreal and
today is even less real. Yet here are fancies, the ghosts of sad and
happy folk who never lived. And among these ghosts I once found
life...."
The idea of publishing the manuscript came to Aubrey one evening when
his wife returned from the theater in a curious mood. She was late for
dinner and this irritated him. But her manner was even more irritating.
She was strident, flushed, gross. Her laugh as they ate made his mother
frown, he observed. He said little. When they left the table an
indignation toward Fanny had come to him.
He retired to his study. Fanny insisted on following him. She hovered
about his chair as he tried to read, caressing him in a curious way, as
if he were a child with whom she was amused. It occurred to him that she
thought him a failure, that there was something condescending in her
manner.
"Oh, leave me alone, please, Fanny."
"Hm! We're peevish. Dear me. Poor old Aubrey's working too hard."
"Please."
"But I want to talk to you. I want to tell you about the matinee."
"I'm not interested, Fanny. You know how I hate vaudeville."
"I love it."
"That's your privilege."
"Don't be sarcastic, Aubrey."
"I'm not. I'm just tired."
"Tired? What have you been doing?"