The return to Tokyo of Sylvia Elliott at this very time seemed an
especially kind dispensation of Providence. Kent had seen practically
nothing of her since his arrival in Japan. In his eagerness to immerse
himself in the Japanese life, to steep himself therein, he had felt
as if he had no time for intermingling with the foreign element, had
almost resented its intrusion where he had not been able to avoid
it. The whites, Americans, British, French and the rest were, after
all, commonplace, incapable of affording the stimulus of the new, the
attraction of the unknown, the piquancy of the constant zest to peek
and penetrate beyond the mysteries behind the _shoji_. He had known
people like that all his life; now, in Japan, he wanted to be with the
Japanese; in that way only was it possible to attain to the full the
charm of living in a foreign country, strange, picturesque, exotic, to
taste with the critical appreciation with which a connoisseur sips a
rare vintage, in slow sips, the impressions and sensations derivable
from the colorful life stirring all about him.
And then she had been in the country most of the time, on sketching
tours in the mountain regions about Nikko, Chuzenji, Ikao. He had
noted with half-attentive curiosity that in spite of his instinctive
avoidance of the foreign element he was pleased to see her again, that
she formed an exception. As he came to see her more often, he was
surprised, delighted, that instead of intruding as a discordant note
in the symphony of life which he was trying to compose by blending
his life in tune to his surroundings, she fitted herself into it, even
enhanced his pleasure therein. She had the capacity for enjoyment, the
appreciative understanding of the essential soul of Japan, which is so
rare with foreign women, who, though their eye for beauty admits and
even admires the charm of carved temple gate, or picturesquely gnarled
pine projecting from rocky crag, stop short with the externals, refuse
to extend sympathetic understanding to the people themselves, the
Japanese, blinded by the instinctive resentment of the white woman at
the competitive charm of womankind of another race. She had none of
that. As he did, so she chose to overlook the blots that they might not
disturb her enjoyment of the colors. Possibly it was that the artist in
her was stronger than the woman. He concluded that it must be so--but
what was the difference! He found that when he was with her, delight in
the discovery of beauty, of landscape, a bit of garden, the harmonious
blending of color in a woman's dress, or even a beautiful face, became
heightened, keener, as if concentrated, more clearly defined, through
the doubled capacity for appreciation of two minds which functioned
harmoniously as one.
For a while they saw much of each other, were constantly together on
expeditions into the surrounding country, or, oftener, on haphazard
rambles through remote quarters of the great, labyrinthic capital,
voyages of discovery in unknown streets where every turn of the road
might lead to new adventure, or bizarre incident which might be added
to the treasures in their common storehouse of memories. They delighted
to lose themselves entirely in some section unfrequented by foreigners,
where one might wander about through the whole day without seeing a
white face, and then to exercise their ingenuity in finding their way
precariously through the maze to some guiding landmark.
"My God, if my wife had only been like that," or rather, he hastened
to amend the thought, if only Isabel had been with him and he might
have taught her, guided her to become like this. But instantly his
intelligence interrupted disturbingly; Isabel couldn't. She would be
like the majority of the women, instinctively antagonistic, magnifying
the stupidity of a cook, the petty rascality of a peddler to the point
where they warped her entire view of all Japan. It persisted as a voice
clamoring at him, and he forced himself to try to think otherwise, as
if he might, by forced violence of the voice of his will, over-shout,
drown utterly the insistent sardonic irony of his intelligence.
So he came to compel himself to resist the thought, to think of other
matters, politics, money, even to work out in his head mathematical
problems. But it was difficult at times. After a day with Sylvia,
permeated with her presence, returning through winding lanes, past
bamboo fences, when the thrill of cicadas mingled with the whimper
of unseen samisen, and the moonlight transformed the world into a
glamorous black-and-white tracery of silhouetted branches, sharply
drawn roof-tree contours standing out against a translucent sky, his
entire being would be singing within him, and he would step lightly,
head thrown back, whistling, enamored with the world, with life.
And then like a pang, sharply, suddenly, like a stitch in the side,
would snap into his brain the inspiration of the devil: "Why all this
gayety?" It was as if the damnable thought took shape, personified
itself into a hideous, leering, grinning imp, with an insidious
wink. "You fool, of course, you are in----" But he was used to it,
was on guard, too quick for the imp; would fling him a mental kick,
indignantly, "Shut up, of course, I am not, you beast." But again, "It
is no use. You can't deceive me. You can't even deceive yourself. You
know damned well that you are in----" Would come again violation of his
thoughts to calculation of algebra, enumeration of bills due at the end
of the month, any beastly thing. He had even tried to think tenderly
of Isabel, to recall the high lights of courtship, red-letter days of
early marriage, to try to conjure a reluctant hope, to compel himself
to wish that she might come back to him, make another attempt to blow
into flame the ashes of dead love.
For, of course, he did not love Sylvia. He snapped his defiance back
into the teeth of the grinning satyr-face popping forth, irritatingly,
from the corners of his mind. He did not love her--with thought of her
came weakness, softness--at least, he could not love her, would not.
It was impossible; not to be thought of. So long as he was married to
Isabel, he would play the game, keep his side of the slate clean, not
place himself in the wrong. Popped into his mind an incident of a few
days before. He had been dancing with Sylvia at a tea dance at the
Imperial Hotel. The orchestra leader, slim, debonair, one of these men
who seem capable of radiating vitality, joy of life, had been singing,
eyes flashing across the length of his fiddle, leaning forward towards
the couples swaying to his rhythm before him, infusing them with his
flame. It had been a trivial thing, one of the myriad of new fox-trots
which spring forth like lush weeds, the words utterly banal. As Hugh
was passing, he had glanced up, his eyes had met those of the happy
fiddler for the flash of a moment, and as he sang the words, the silly,
inane stuff, "When you play the game of love, are you playing fair,"
he had laughed to him. It seemed almost as if there had been the
slightest suggestion of a knowing wink, conveying the suggestion that
he, the fiddler, was sharer of a secret between the two, and as if he
had, friendlily insinuating, tilted his head toward Sylvia. Even at the
moment, Kent had been certain that it was all a play of imagination,
a trumpery pleasantry sardonically contrived by his accursed imp
familiar, but the thing had stuck in his mind with absurdly exaggerated
force.
Confound it! It was exactly the opposite thing. He was playing
fair. There was not even suggestion of a game of love, of love at
all. Platonic love, then? It was almost as if the suggestion had
been shouted at him; he could even perceive the ring of sarcastic
intonation, the incredulous sneer with which the world usually
accompanies the phrase. It made him angry. Why that stupid sneer?
Why, after all, should not platonic love be possible? To swine no, of
course not. But he did not expect to be a swine, was not one, in fact.
If the majority, the ruck of humanity, were too gross to conceive of
the possibility, the worse for them. That was none of his affair. He
could be, he was capable of intimate association with a beautiful woman
unblemished by thought, suggestion, even hint of sex.
The idea came to please him. It seemed capable of placing at an end the
indefinite suggestiveness of his thoughts, reduced the whole matter
to a concrete basis, the definitiveness of something recognized as
an existing phenomenon. His mind became easier. Might flash before
him a glimpse of what Karsten, for instance, would say should he have
divined his conclusion. He saw in his mind's eye the friendly irony of
his indulgent smile. Karsten was not unimaginative, just the contrary:
still he had dulled fineness of perception by over-indulgence in
affairs of love. History had examples of it, Dante and Beatrice, and
Petrarch and Laura, and---- For the moment he could think of no others.
Instantly the imp. "Damned rare, eh!" He snapped his fingers. What was
the difference; the rarer, the more precious.
So he drifted on, more happily, more at peace with himself; felt that
he might safely, without feeling of guilt or apprehension, continue in
this delightful relation; need not studiously, conscientiously confine
himself to enjoying only the mind, the sympathy of thought with this
woman, but might allow himself, continently, to find pleasure in the
play of light on her hair, in letting his eye rest with satisfied
appreciation on the curve of her cheek, the contour of her svelte
figure. Life was being good to him. Even if an inspiration of a moment
might pounce upon him when least expected, "What if there had been no
Isabel?" He had gotten himself in hand now; his course was set, he had
but to steer watchfully, carefully, but, after all, safely.
And then, just as he had contrived to reduce his problem to safe and
definite tangibility, the whole thing dissipated, shattered abruptly
into a baffling void as does a glorious, iridescent bubble shimmering
brilliantly in the sunlight suddenly vanish into utter nothingness
without Visible cause or agency. She became elusive. The accustomed
places saw her no more. On rare occasions he might run across her, but
the circumstances were almost inauspicious,--a meeting on the Ginza,
at the Imperial, always with a background of entirely inconsequential
persons irritatingly intruding their irritating presence. Even when
he might manage to attain an occasional moment alone with her,
nothing was gained. She was not cold, not even formal, but without
appearing to wish to avoid him, she contrived to do so. There were
always reasons, each one manifestly valid, why she could not accept
this or that invitation. There were no more rambles together, no
more dances. He marveled at the skill with which she maintained the
appearance of continuance of the old friendliness and yet erected,
with deft sureness, an invisible barrier. He felt like a fly dashing
itself against a clear pane of glass, hopelessly frustrated by the
unsurmountable opposition of the invisible. What the devil could be
the matter? He racked his brain, trying to seek a cause, to recall
whatever incident, some error of omission or commission, careless or
clumsy phrase, but always with the same result. He could think of
nothing; there was nothing. And she was manifestly not capricious, not
a flirt endeavoring to season more highly a man-woman relationship by
the spurious artifices of coquetry. It was disquieting, irritating,
maddening. What a damnable capacity for torment was possessed by
even the best of women! Was that one of the traits of the eternal
feminine, an unescapable remnant of the Old Eve, just as all men must
have in them some trace of the Old Adam? Probably the phenomenon was
nothing very intricate or perplexing to men who knew women, who had
experience in diagnosing such symptoms. He had never envied Karsten;
had rather been inclined to pity him as one who had dulled his
capacity for enjoyment of the best things in female companionship by
over-indulgence; still, for the purposes of this occasion, at least, he
wished that he possessed his facility with women, whatever advantages
his experience might give him for grappling with such problems.
Then, Karsten came to his aid unexpectedly. They were smoking after
dinner. Nothing much was being said. Karsten was wandering up and down
the floor, chewing the stem of his pipe. Suddenly he blurted out,
apropos of nothing whatever, pipe-stem waving in the direction of Kent:
"I say, Kent, mind you, I am not trying to intrude on your affairs,
but, I just wonder, have you ever mentioned to Miss Elliott anything
about your wife, anything about your being married?"
"What? What's that?" He was gaping at him surprised, fish-like. "I say,
old man, what in the devil are you driving at, anyway?"
He had been thinking of Sylvia just then, forcing his mind to
travel wearily over the same old ground, trying to discover some
tangible foothold from which to gain his way out from the baffling
intangibility, the vagueness of it all. Karsten's question was right
in line with his thoughts, fitted in as a marvelously apposite thing,
as if he had been trying to work out a fretwork puzzle and Karsten
had, by some surprising intuition, dumped before him one of the pieces
for which he had been looking to effect the solution. He shook himself
together. It seemed as if he must know something, have some idea,
anyway, some kind of factor which might aid in puzzling it all out.
He repeated, "And what are you driving at, anyway?" Absurdly, he felt
his chest contracting, the pulses in his temples swelling. He had no
business to be so excited.
"Well, I was wondering. I came across the fag end of a bit of gossip
to-day at the Imperial. Old Mrs. Tinker, the chief lady cat, you know,
called me over to her table, at tea. She doesn't usually so favor me,
you know. She's had enough to say about my foibles, what she could
find out and what she could imagine. But she simply couldn't contain
herself. She had just gotten hold of something that was too good to
keep, that she must get off her chest to some one, any one, I fancy,
and then I was your friend. I must have been just like a find. Maybe
the old lady has some kind of rudimentary, perverted sense of the
dramatic--or she may have hoped to get something more in the way of
detail out of me. Anyway, she was full with it right up to the neck.
She couldn't even show a bit of finesse. She just blurted it at me. She
knew, of course, that you were a great friend of mine, and of Sylvia
Elliott's, and that you were a man of honor, a gentleman. She took
pains to repeat that, several times. But she wondered, she said, 'You
know I'm an old woman,' she said, and God knows, she spoke the truth
for once in her life. She wondered, the dear old soul, whether you had
realized that with a young, innocent girl like Sylvia--And then it came
again, like a refrain; she kept saying it, she must have said it a
dozen times, 'I am an old woman, you know,' but she wondered, the foul
old beast, whether you could really perceive the seriousness of it,
the woeful consequences of toying with the affections of an 'innocent
girl.' You know how such an old woman can say it so it becomes almost
an insult. Good God, even the worst of us have a pride in taking the
innocence of such a girl for granted, but such an old cat can contrive
to use the term with the most insidious innuendo. Why the devil do our
absurd rules of conduct prevent one from kicking an old beast like
that. I felt like doing it more than I've ever done it with respect to
any man. But there I must stand, deferentially, with a teacup waving in
my hand, with a show of courtesy, while she meandered on. You know, it
strikes me that such an absolutely useless old woman, an encumbrance on
earth, with no apparent purpose than that of making it a worse place to
live in for all the rest of us, can, while employing apparently all the
ordinary polite phraseology of courteous intercourse, produce more of
an effect of the most vicious foulness than can the most common harlot
or the roughest obscenity of a salt-water second mate. By the gods, it
seems to me----"
"Yes, and when you get through cussing old lady Tinker, I'd be
obliged to know what the deuce it was all about." Generally Kent
enjoyed Karsten's vivid circumambience, but now it seemed to him
almost irritatingly studied, as if the other were playing him, like
a fish. "Get on with your tale." He felt that the elusive thing, the
explanation which he had been ransacking heaven and earth for, was at
last within hand's reach.
"Yes, of course, I beg your pardon. Well, the long and the short of it
was that the old girl had been informed that you had not told--that you
had taken pains not to tell, was the way she put it, with that sickly,
kindly, leering smile which she affects--that you were married. Oh,
yes, she had just heard of it. And I was a friend of yours, and didn't
I think that we older people--the smile again--just like that, she and
I in the same category, hand in hand--I'd given a thousand yen for the
privilege of heaving my tea in her face, hot tea--but would it not be
best if you were spoken to about it, given a hint, though--you could
see the satisfaction she got from spitting forth the full load of venom
she had been gathering from the start--she was happy to know that Miss
Elliott had been informed, fully informed, from a reliable source, most
reliable, in fact, from the very source from which she, herself, had
her information.
"And then she let me go. It must have seemed a good day's work to her,
letting loose that bit of trouble on the world. I can imagine her
sitting at home now, with her cat, or her parrot or whatever she has
got, and turning that bit of mischief over in her mind, cocking her
head on one side and scheming how she may elaborate on it, add a few
details, artistic touches, and where she may carry her tale to-morrow
where it may have the most effect. And, by the way, I wondered at the
time who her source of information might be, and it struck me--she had
just been sitting with that red-headed Wilson girl from the American
Auto Company, the two of them with their heads together thick as
thieves--I was wondering whether she might not be the serpent. Do you
know her?"
So that was it. For the moment Kent was confused by a clash of
conglomerate emotions; relief that, petty as the whole thing was, he at
least knew now the exact state of affairs, had gained a foothold whence
he might find his way out of the wilderness of uncertainty--and then,
on the other hand, the abominable, spiteful malignity of that girl,
that Wilson individual. Flashed into his mind the incident at the dance
on board the _Tenyo Maru_, and his intuitive premonition that from
the incidentally aroused enmity of this woman would come eventually a
venomous sting of malice.
Oh, the damned----cat. He felt that he had never so absolutely
detested, utterly contemned a woman. "Yes, I know her. I chanced--she
was such a wantonly malicious beast--to offend her on the _Tenyo_.
Karsten, for what inscrutable reason does Providence create such women
and allow them to cumber the earth?"
"And why not?" The other shrugged his shoulders. "The question
arises with all kinds of women. Have you not at times, when you have
fortuitously chanced on some woman, some seductive beauty who by the
mere contact of a moment, glance of an eye, soft murmur of a few words,
smashes down whatever defenses you may have laboriously contrived
against being enveloped in the net of the charm of women--and then,
when quietude of mind, the state of being tranquil, at peace, normal,
is, against your will, in spite of all you may do, abruptly shattered,
and when you feel yourself again racked in the nervous tension of
desire, passion, love, whatever you may call it--have you not then,
Kent, found yourself asking God whatever can be His intention in
letting loose upon earth women like that whose sole purpose seems to
be to steal away from men what little chance they may have of being
at peace? And as it is with that kind, I suppose it is with the
others, the plain women, envious, malicious, mischief-making. What
can be the purpose of their existence, unless it is to counterbalance
those others, to add the other ingredient with which it has pleased
Providence to contrive this madhouse of conflicting elements of
humanity which make up this world."
But Kent was paying no attention. What the deuce could he do? He felt
that now, when he had through fortuitous good fortune obtained the
solution of the riddle, his problem should have been almost solved;
but, incongruously, he seemed to have made no headway whatever. Now,
what should he do? His brain seemed to be void, to be incapable
of functioning. The feeling that Karsten was watching him, was
expecting him to pursue the subject, to carry on with it, made him
feel uncomfortable, irritated him, as if Karsten had been insistently
curious.
"I wonder what the Cabinet intends to do about the Russian policy
question." The remark escaped him almost involuntarily. He might as
well, he felt, have suggested a query as to what the weather was likely
to be the day after to-morrow, anything, however irrelevant. The fierce
pudicity which causes a man to shrink from having bared before the
eyes of another man the intimate processes of his affections, made him
wish, desperately, to steer Karsten to some other subject. He repeated
it nervously, and even as he was speaking he felt the futility thereof.
"Now, I wonder what the Cabinet will do?"
"Yes, what will the Cabinet do?" Karsten was leaning back in his chair,
regarding him ironically. "Oh, hell!" He turned and went over to fill
his pipe.
And, now he had driven Karsten away from the subject, it came to Kent
that that was just what he did not want to do. His own brain was as
inert as mud. Suddenly he was overcome with need for advice, sympathy,
with the desire to discuss the thing, talk it over, to get a helping
hand to swing his mind over the dead-center where it was now hanging.
"I wish I knew what to do." He blurted it out. Even that--to get the
thing articulated, to place it in form of words--seemed to make an
advance, to make it more concrete. "Now, what can I do to set myself
right with Sylvia?"
"You love her?" Rather than a question, it seemed like the seeking of
definite confirmation, for the purpose of establishing a postulate for
further logical treatment of the problem. Of course, that wouldn't do.
The uneasy sense of evasion, of making the very beginning with what--he
could not evade it--was not essentially true, irritated him. He snapped
back, "No, of course, not." The harsh abruptness of his tone grated
in his own ears. That was no way to talk to a man who was, after all,
offering sympathy, a friend. He hastened to smooth it over.
"I like her. I am extremely fond of her. I think more of her than of
any other woman, except----" He had been about to say "my wife," but
he caught himself, disgusted at the facility with which he had almost
slid into smug hypocrisy. "I am fond of her, I say; I place every
possible value on her friendship, yes, platonic friendship, if you
please." He glared at Karsten, ready for fierce rejoinder, anticipating
ironic drawing of the mouth, incredulous gesture.
But Karsten let it pass. "And what have you yourself thought of doing?"
"But, hang it, man, that's just it. What the devil can I do? If she
were a sweetheart of mine, if there had been any sort of a love
relation, or even the possibility of the establishment of one, the
potentiality existing when a man who is free, marriageable, has been
on terms of fairly intimate friendship with a woman, then I might
reasonably go to her and make some kind of explanation. But now, what
can I do? I can't go up to her and say, 'Here, my dear, I am sorry if
I've overlooked telling you that I'm married. I'm sorry if I've caused
you to have futile expectations'--or just go up to her and remark,
quite casually, 'Oh, by the way, you know I have a wife.' I fancy that
if I had the wit, the experience that you have, for instance, I might
manage to contrive some subtle means, something to set this thing
straight, for, honestly--you'll have to take my word for it--what I
have said about the whole thing being just friendship is absolutely and
literally true."
"Just like with a man?"
"Yes, just like with a man."
"Then, that's the answer. Treat the affair just as if she were a man.
If gossip had placed you in a false position with a man, you would go
to him, wouldn't you, and have a straight talk with him? Why can't you
give a woman, a woman whom you think so much of, credit for having
as much broadmindedness, intelligence, as a man? You hint about my
experience with women, about subtleties. Listen, if you will take
advice from the depths of my ignorance, I will tell you one thing--and
it is something that I was stupid enough not to discover for years--the
sort of thing that is so obvious that you pass right over it without
seeing it--which is that with women, at least the right sort of women,
the best course, the only sensible course, is to tell them the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. To some men, those who think
that in dealing with women one requires some specially intricate means,
that would seem the very culmination of subtlety, but it is, I am
earnestly convinced, the one and only way."
Yes, it sounded easy. He ruminated, turned the suggestion over and
over. The theory seemed all right, but when he came to translate it
into action, when he came to think of how he would approach her,
how he would open the subject, what he would say, it became utterly
impractical, impossible.
Karsten read his mind. "Yes, I know that it is easy to give advice
in such matters and quite another thing to carry out the suggestion.
But the only thing for you to do is to keep turning the thing over in
your mind, familiarize yourself with the idea. Then, gradually, as the
strangeness thereof wears away, when it no longer stuns your brain
with the impact of something astounding, precipitate, you will find it
becoming more rational to you. Eventually you may find that working out
the thing becomes fairly natural, even relatively easy. What is there
about it that sticks you, anyway?"
"Blessed if I know; no one particular point, the whole thing more or
less. I know how I myself have always been able to see just what the
other chap should do, how it has irritated me often to see some fellow
pursue an absolutely foolish course with respect to some woman, doing
exactly what he shouldn't do, purblind to the absolutely obvious. I
have felt like taking him by the shoulder and saying, 'Here, Tom, Dick,
or Bill, or whoever you may be, can't you see, you fool, that what this
particular girl wants is this, that, or the other. It is like watching
a chess game. The onlooker sees the approaching mate much sooner than
the man who is playing the game. And in this kind of a thing another
can't possibly see into, or appreciate just what is going on in the
other chap's mind; estimate the infinitely fine manifestations, the
super-delicate emotional vibrations so imperceptible that the man
himself can only barely feel them without being able to analyze them.
And, for one thing, I think just one of the flaws in your theory is
that the premises are not altogether well taken. You say, 'If the
relation is just like that of man with man, then treat it like that.'
And in a way it is; but then again, in another way it isn't. It can't
be. With a man the idea of sex relation is necessarily absent, but with
a woman, even when neither has it in mind at all, it cannot be avoided
altogether, ignored. Take this case. I'm sure that I never thought of
it. In fact, I'm sure that she never thought of it either. The very
circumstance that quite likely I never did mention my wife, that I've
not the slightest recollection whether I ever did so or not, shows,
doesn't it, that my mind was entirely free from the idea. So, with a
man, there would be no problem at all; but with a woman, with Sylvia,
no matter how delicately I approach the matter, the suggestion must
come into evidence that one fears, one thinks, that she must, to some
extent at least, have had in mind the fact that she is a woman and I
a man. It is virtually as if one said, 'Here, I'm afraid that you may
not be quite clear that this is purely a friendly relation, that sex
doesn't enter into it.' Damn it, I can't express the thought without
getting it into phrases that are blunt, clumsy; but you get the idea,
don't you? I'm hanged if I can see how I could do it without becoming
positively insulting.
"And then there's another thing, something that really hurts me more
than any other phase of it all, and that is, Why should a girl like
Sylvia, clean, sweet-minded, sensible, be affected by a thing like
that? It is almost as if she, in fact, did suspect me of having really
had in the back of my mind all the time some such insidious intention.
And still, I am absolutely sure that she cannot have. By the gods,
Karsten, the ways of women are something absolutely inscrutable to me."
"Oh, that's simple enough. It takes no mysterious knowledge of sex to
explain that. Use your common sense, man. I'll admit that that struck
me also, for a moment, and I was a bit disappointed in her; but, if
you reason for a moment, it is plain enough. It's not that, not with
Sylvia. It is nothing to her whether you mentioned your wife or not,
whether you have a wife or not. She's not the kind of a girl who looks
upon every male who is fortuitously thrown in her way as a potential
husband, whose entire scheme of existence is bound up in the idea of
ensnaring a provider. And I'm sure that she cannot believe that you had
any philandering in mind. Trust a woman for that, especially one so
delicately constituted as Sylvia. And even the most stupid ones, any
woman, since it is part of the very essence of being a woman, knows
instinctively, by intuition, when the sex element, however subtly,
is hovering about. No, what has affected Sylvia, the reason why she
keeps you at arm's length, is the manner in which the thing has been
presented to her. Can't you imagine the insidious, slimy suggestiveness
of that Wilson individual, coming to her with her, 'You really ought
to know, my dear'; how noisome the mere idea must have been to her
that any one, the Wilson thing, all the rest of the gossips, were
turning this thing over and over on their salacious tongues, this
innocent, patently clean relation existing between her and you. It must
have been immeasurably offensive to her, intolerable. Put yourself
in her place for a moment. Probably she may have been as reluctant
as you are to give up this pleasant friendship. But what could she
do? Being a woman, hedged in by the myriad conventions which tie up a
woman's freedom of action much more than they do a man's, she'd find
herself in an even more difficult position than that which you are in
and which puzzles you so. No, old man, that's all plain enough; and if
you find that you can't bring yourself to take the bull by the horns
and talk it out with her, why, the only thing you can do is to let the
thing rest for the time being. Neither seek her nor evade her. Don't
increase her difficulties by asking her to go about with you; to a
girl so essentially honest and honorable it must be extremely annoying
to be forced to resort to the small lies, the petty prevarications
of convention, to invent excuses--but don't evade her either. Be as
courteous, friendly and frank as ever, and, above all, be natural. As
time passes the gossips will find other victims and eventually you can,
if you are careful, tactful, drift back into the old relation. Yes,
it's rotten, isn't it, that in this world such damnable machinations as
breaking up a clean, beautiful relation as that between you and Sylvia
can be possible, and that it can be carried out triumphantly, in the
name of purity, of virtue. By the gods, I think at times that if the
prudes were less busy, the world might be a much cleaner place to live
in."
Karsten was right. Kent felt an intense gratitude to him for having
dispelled thus surely, by the incontrovertible logic of plain sense,
the rankling doubt that had assailed him, strive as he might against
it, about Sylvia. It placed the whole situation in a much better light.
Sylvia was all right. The essence of the relation between them had not
been vitiated. All this was but the disturbing echo of something from
outside, annoying, distressing, but in the end surely ineffectual. So
he would follow Karsten's advice. Everything would come out all right.
She had brought to the window the tall bamboo cage, had opened the tiny
gate of intricately interwoven strips. All about her stood trunks and
boxes. From the back came the clatter of the carters carrying stuff out
to the cart. She had waited with this to the very last. Now she stood
back, watching the lark as it hopped about on the bottom of the cage,
eyeing curiously the opened door. She had often been disturbed by the
thought that she should not keep this bird a prisoner; but she had been
assured that it had been born in captivity, that it would prefer the
comfortable life, protected behind the slender bamboo bars. Now, it
seemed as if it really did. It was in no hurry to grasp at freedom.
The bird hopped up into the opening and sat, cocking its head, as if in
doubt, peering into the world before it. Now, what would it do; would
it really be happier in the protection of confinement, or would it have
the courage to grasp the freedom of unknown distances?
Unknown distances! She felt that she herself was uneasily uncertain,
tremulous at the idea of setting behind her the small world into which
she had fitted herself so agreeably. She was cowardly, like the bird,
then, not venturesome enough to face the unknown. No, it was not
that. She must be frank with herself; her cowardice lay in not daring
to remain; and, moreover, she was not acting honestly to Kent. The
suggestion of the Wilson creature, the mere effrontery of her making
such an insinuation, had dumbfounded her. Of course, she had known
always--so long as she had known him; on board the _Tenyo_--that he
was married. She could not even remember whether he had told her, had
ever mentioned it, or whether she had come to know from an extraneous
source, ship's gossip. It had been a matter of no moment whatever,
utterly inconsequential. And to him it must have been inconsequential
too; a thing which had no bearing whatever on their relation. The
effrontery of this woman, and of the others, all those who, she
had said, were now whispering among themselves about them. She had
smiled at her assurance that she had known, that it was a matter of
no consequence one way or the other, the incredulous smile, updrawn
brows, that was an insult in itself. And then the hard shamelessness
with which she had tried to pursue the matter, to gain more pabulum
for gossip; endeavoring to establish a pretense of intimacy which
was entirely inexistent, she had hoped, she said, meretriciously
solicitous, that she did not really love him, that this would not
hurt her. Sylvia might have taken her by the hair, dragged her forth,
thrown her out, her fierce desire for primitive methods of combat, to
rend this foully insulting female into tatters, had surprised her. The
intense repression, the nervous bewildered casting about for escape,
had left her trembling, white.
And when she had finally gotten rid of the woman somehow, and had sat
down to compose herself to think, she had been confused, bewildered,
unable to seize upon some starting point from which to develop a line
of thought. Instinctively she wanted to hide, to shelter herself in
some place where all this foulness could not reach her, to escape. It
had always been her intention to wander on beyond Japan, to grapple
with new landscapes, new colors, feathery palm fronds swaying beneath
the stars, the iridescent brilliance of the tropics. She had already
long overstayed the time she had originally decided to devote to Japan.
She had found so much more material than she had expected, and--yes,
of course, if she were to think this thing out, she must be entirely
honest, probe into herself with the dissecting knife no matter how she
might shrink--yes, the truth was that she had not wished to abandon
her friendship with Kent. Yes, friendship. It had been just that, only
that. That, at least, she might say with absolute truth. True, there
had been moments where the thought had come to her that if he had been
free, their relation might have been enhanced, vivified by the rosy
light of romance. She had even--she was going to have this thing out
with herself, go to the very most intimate essence thereof--yes, there
had been a time when she had wondered what was really the relation
between Kent and his wife; was there not a possibility that freedom
might come to him? But she had put the thought behind her, ashamed,
disgusted with herself that she could thus be tempted to contemplate
gaining a love which was the rightful property of another, insidiously
coveting affection which belonged rightfully to that other woman. So,
even though it was evident that the day might come when the barrier
might be removed, she had refused to consider the possibility, as an
unworthy thought. The line between considering the potentiality and
wishing that it might be brought about was too fine. And now that she
had gotten past all that, and their relation had crystallized safely on
a firmly constructed foundation, she was forced to leave it all. But
was it not cowardly thus to concede victory to the mischief makers, to
desert Kent? Would it not be cleaner, more worthy to remain, stick it
out. She wished she were strong enough to stay, to continue, defiantly,
the relation, safe in her knowledge that not the slightest suspicion of
a thought of sex entered into the minds of Kent and herself. And still,
there was no escape from the certainty that the thought could not be
ignored; the gossips had injected it. She must always wonder whether
Kent had heard what they thought. He must wonder whether she had. They
had soiled their friendship with the foulness of their insinuating
suggestion. No matter how she and Kent might try to erase it from their
minds, some faint trace, some ineradicable smudge must remain.
The bird was hopping about on the window sill, lifting its wings in
little tentative flaps, restless, fluttering in indecision. She stepped
up to it. Why didn't the silly little thing have the initiative to
make the break into freedom, to grasp the alluring promises of the
new, unknown beyond. She watched it. "Oh, we are poor things, you and
I. But, out you go." With her hand she pushed it gently out. It had to
use its wings to save itself. It fluttered; then it stretched them out,
strongly, boldly, circled slowly, then more surely, gained upwards,
rose higher and higher, disappeared in the blue.