The old lady watched Berenice walk down the road, pausing for a moment
in her beautiful needlework to admire her young daughter-in-law's slim,
willowy figure, the eager pose of her head, her brown, beautifully
plaited hair. The apple-green of her dress and the blue-green of the
trees--she made such a beautiful picture, and the old lady shook her
head and sighed.
And one might imagine the old lady saying: When I was young I was as
lissome as that, as pretty, had as eager a head. Time flies, and we
grow old. Ah, the fine days of young womanhood!
But that was not in her mind at all: she shook her head because she
knew the heartaches, the difficulties, the terrors the young girl must
go through before she attained to the reward of women--wisdom and peace.
For they all came to that in the latter end, the old lady thought--the
girls who started out dancing, and the girls whose eyes were troubled
with thought, and the girls deep as rivers, and the shallow girls who
angled for a honeyed word. And life, like some deft schoolmistress,
caught them and taught them and put wisdom in their heads, and in their
hearts little modest flowers, like forget-me-nots. And the sad girls
learned laughter from little children on the floor, and the wayward
ones learned loyalty from trouble, and great emotional currents put
depths into the shallow ones. And life seemed so hard, the present so
brutal, the future terrible as an army with banners--but one day it was
gone. All was past. And in retrospect it seemed so little pain to
have had, to learn such a great lesson, to come to such a sweet place!
If one came through it, it was so much worth while.
The hazards one made so much of ... Oh! Did n't she know!
It seemed to her as she looked back now very strange that all the
little tragedies of her life appeared to have faded and all the
happiness intensified; and this was peculiar, for at the time the pain
seemed so poignant and the happiness so diverse, so hard to grasp. A
night at a theater, for instance, twenty years ago, and a dinner before
it, and a supper afterward--how queer one could remember all that!
Even the tunes the orchestra played, the clothes one wore, what this
man said, how this woman looked. And one thought of the night young
Barry, below, writing, was so near to death; and the utter terror, the
tragedy of that time had faded. And one remembered only how pretty he
looked, how kind the doctor was, how Mr. Valance, her husband, had put
his hand on her shoulder in his big, kindly way.
If young people knew how these things came out, they would n't worry so
much, but there was no use telling them. They would have to find out
for themselves.
She had never been one to admire nature, had the old lady, but one
thing she did know: she knew people and she knew life. Berenice was
all right, a very fine girl for all her romantic thoughts, but Barry
worried her occasionally. He was so intense about his career of
writing. And she felt in her heart that if was not going to be a
success. One knew, somehow. For instance this: she could tell whether
or not a novice was going to be a great pianist, because she could see
him as a master, if he were ever to arrive; his power, his aloofness,
his concentration. She could see a merchant. She supposed it was a
gift, just feeling what people were.
And her son Barry below--she could not see him. And she was n't going
to tell him, either. Men were queer. They bore grudges, even to their
mothers. It was better to let him fight himself out, and be conquered,
drop; and then pick himself up, and think it over, and go to something
else, with a pang and more wisdom. And month by month the
disappointment would pass, until the ramping of his early days was no
more to him than a quaint gesture. And years later he would meet some
great author for a moment, and be very courteous, a little shy with
him. But he would never tell him of the struggle on his own account,
never mention a word--ah, she knew, she knew!
Barry would be all right. Only--only he must be broken. All humans
must be broken, as Mr. Valance, her husband, had said horses are. And
some horses are great race-horses, and some are hacks, and some
hunters, and some just simply for use. But all have to be broken. And
they are nearly all kind, nearly all good, as human beings are. For
nearly all men and women are good, the old lady thought. One had to
know their hearts,--their appearance, their gestures meant
nothing,--and their hearts ought to have a chance to grow. And then
they would all be good. Those who were n't had had the growth of their
hearts stunted somehow. And they were n't to be hated, but pitied,
poor things.
If any one, any young person, were to know what her thoughts were--the
old lady smiled--she would say she had known no trouble in life, was
shallow, did not understand the tragedy of things.
Well, she had had her share of life; her troubles as well as the rest
of them. She had been a very sensitive girl. When she married Mr.
Valance, her husband, she had hardly known him,--for such was the
custom in her day, that he should satisfy her parents of his affection
rather than herself,--and when the day came to leave her father and
mother and her four brothers and her sisters, to leave the house she
had known since she was born, to leave her own virginal room, and go
away with a strange, terrifying, fascinating man--why, it was like
jumping into the sea without knowing how to swim. In those days young
girls did not know, were scared. And yet everything had been all
right. She loved Mr. Valance, her husband. No two could ever have
been closer than she and he. And she smiled at the terror of her
leaving the home.
And before Barry was born--oh, the ghastly nights, the ghastly, ghastly
nights, of lying awake and fearing, fearing, and the hideous
unimaginable dreams! And the birth itself, the surge of pain like some
cruel, driving knife, and strength ebbing in a fast flood! And came
kind unconsciousness, and when she woke there was a sort of white peace
in her, and the little dark-haired boy, by some beneficent magic, was
on the nurse's broad lap. And the strange miracle of how she had
forgotten all the pain so soon ... how little it seemed, how natural!
And how ready she would have been again. A little daughter, she had
thought--how nice it would be! But it was n't to be.
And when Mr. Valance, her husband, had died, for her had come, she
thought, the end of the world. Yet now all she could remember were the
peace and trust in his quiet face, when all had gone. And into the
room where she was alone with him there came the quiet message that all
was well. And the hearts of people were so warm. The doctor himself,
who had seen so many die one would have thought he would have become
callous, was so unaffectedly kind. Even people one had thought were
enemies--or not enemies but just careless of one--showed a warmth, an
understanding.
And she had thought it impossible for her ever to be on the world
alone; but somewhence strength had come to her, and poise; and all the
fears she had when Mr. Valance, her husband, was alive, were dead now,
she a widow. Lonely and down in grief at times, but afraid never!
And she thought to herself, with a queer little smile, of the times
when in the dark of the night, by the eerie Long Island waters, she had
gone out, crying in a little misery, praying, wishing that Mr. Valance,
her husband, would appear to her, that she might once more hear the
beloved voice, sense the big dignity, perhaps feel the kindly hand upon
her shoulder. But she waited in vain. Nothing came to her cries, her
prayers, her wishes. But when she came in again, she felt she had
emptied her heart of longing and loneliness, and all the familiar
furnishings of her rooms spoke to her tactfully and friendly.
She smiled, because now she recognized--however she did it she did not
know--that what she wanted could not possibly be granted. Just for her
alone an exception could not be made against the seemingly cruel,
tremendously wise law that the dead should be silent. Everything was
so wise, so ordered. And if one were to know exactly, the merchant
would leave his shop, the seamstress her broidery, the workman his
lathe. So it was kept a curtain of mystery, with a little hedge of
terror before it.
All was well. Life and death, all in good hands.
She had often thought to herself, sitting there, as an old person
might, that things did not seem as well as they were in her young days.
But on second thoughts she discovered they were just the same. Life
was a constant, as Mr. Valance, her husband used to say of things.
Oftentimes while she sat in a corner and heard young people talk, she
was amused, for they seemed to think she knew nothing of modern life.
And life could not be modern or ancient. Life was a constant, as Mr.
Valance, her husband, used to say. They had only manufactured new
terms, discovered new angles. She smiled as she thought of their talks
of psychoanalysis; of how one was very complex; and how one must get
rid of obsessions by discovering them and talking about them to a
specialist. One did the same in her day. One called the obsessions
troubles, and on one's knees one poured one's heart out to God. And
their talk of psychic things--why, when she was a grown woman, did n't
they have the queer Eddys in Vermont, and that strange Russian woman,
Madame Blavatsky, and Home, the medium, who floated through a window,
feet first! And she was sure that when she was young there was just as
intricate card games as bridge. And their talk of Socialism and man's
rights! Did they forget that Lincoln freed the slaves? Ah, the young!
She remembered a man saying--an old man--that what was wrong with the
new generation was this: they left nothing to God. They wanted to do
everything their own way. Fifty years ago, he said, every one was
cognizant of God.
But were they? pondered the old lady. Yes, they went to church. But
did n't they go just because one went, as nowadays one goes to the
movies? A habit. And did the rounded sentences of the ministers mean
anything to the young? No. And the hymns--they were just melodies.
One sang them, as young boys sang college songs. It was only when one
was grown, man or woman tall, and the great wolves of the world harried
one, harried until one could sense their white teeth, their red
slavering mouths, and there was a blank wall and no escape--it was only
then one felt the Immense Hand. And rarely afterward did one speak of
it. It seemed like a strange secret order, being initiated to God.
She was sure that it was like that to-day, as it was fifty years ago,
as it must ever have been, as it must ever be.
Looking up from her sewing an instant, she saw Berenice coming toward
the house. It must be later than she thought. It must be lunch-time.
They must make Barry, poor boy, stop now. Brain work was so fatiguing
and he should n't overdo it.
She paused for a breath, watching the brown head, the apple-green
dress. She knew the girl's secret, though Berenice had never said
anything, hinted at all about a baby. But the little exalted look in
the eyes--
"I must say a prayer to-night," thought the old lady.
He got up from the desk. No! it was no use. Nothing would come
to-day. Another fruitless morning. If he could only find the trick
those fellows had!
Yes, but they all had something to write about, and he had nothing:
this wretched urban setting, this calm, uninteresting sound. And he
knew nobody. There was no encouragement, no inspiration. His mother,
dear old lady--she knew nothing, could tell him nothing. And his
wife--she was a dear girl, and he loved her, but-- Oh, there was
nothing to write about; no drama; no people of drama.