Vol. LXXXVIII No. 2
The
Yale Literary Magazine
Conducted by the
Students of Yale University.
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November, 1922.
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THE YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE
Contents
NOVEMBER, 1922
Leader ROBERT C. BATES 39
More Modern Love MAXWELL E. FOSTER 45
Love Song WALTER E. HOUGHTON, JR. 47
In Pace Conquiescare RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT 48
_Portfolio_
Melody FRANK D. ASHBURN 62
Inspiration STANLEY MILLER COOPER 62
The Dreamer WILLIAM TROY 69
_Book Reviews_ 70
_Editor’s Table_ 74
The Yale Literary Magazine
VOL. LXXXVIII NOVEMBER, 1922 NO. 2
_EDITORS_
MAXWELL EVARTS FOSTER
RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT
ROBERT CHAPMAN BATES
WINFIELD SHIRAS
FRANCIS OTTO MATTHIESSEN
_BUSINESS MANAGERS_
CHARLES EVANDER SCHLEY
HORACE JEREMIAH VOORHIS
_Leader_
It is now two thousand years ago that Horace sang that triumph-song of
his which has rung ever since:
_Exegi monumentum aere perennius._
The succession of numberless years and the very flight of time have left
that monument still higher than the pyramids of kings, for it was a good
thing, and he knew it, and we to-day know it. Perhaps it is well for us
to stop a moment and wonder a little just what we are leaving, which
after two thousand years, will stand so, firm-fixed, splendidly living.
We look at this century of ours, we try to see it as might a future
historian, and find a surprising hodge-podge. Fully judge it without the
future, we cannot, yet, because everything is moving at such a terrific
rate, these days, the present and the future are almost one, and we are
thus enabled to pass partial judgment at least. Partial judgment—and on
what? A world disillusioned, its ideals smashed, or, more tragic even,
forgot; in the field of its arts, new music, new poetry, new painting;
and over and above all, Science triumphant.
We need say nothing about the world in general—it is out of place here,
and we all know too much of wars and rumors of wars, and the rest.
So let us consider a moment then, the arts.—Such new arts they are,
too, and like most youngsters, so very self-assertive! Their Muses
are flapper-muses, and, like their physical prototypes, cause havoc
enough. We have with us “the arts, though unimagined, yet to be” of
Shelley’s prophecy, and, to Shelley, who loved Beauty and knew her, they
would indeed be unimaginable! Poetry, unformed and unthought; great
loose-joined masses of prose called novels; canvases, inch-deep with
modelled paint; statues of featureless faces, or rectangular muscles;
and music, uninspired, discordant aggregations of notes. We grant these
illegitimate members of the “progeny immortal of painting, sculpture, and
rapt poesy” do fall, under our very eyes, prostrate along the path to
lasting fame, with that goal still not even in sight, nevertheless, men
and women are gulled by them, look, and admire even, in their breathless
attempt to be “astride the times”. Therein lies the tragedy—that they are
accepted.
And is it these—these outlandish oddities, and these gulled seekers
for the sensational—which are the monument we are raising to ourselves
that future generations may unearth them, and smile a little at the
magniloquent impotence of them all? And if they do constitute our
conception of a lasting contribution to Time’s granary, are we to
do nothing about it? Of course, we being young, do take it all too
seriously, for Youth always takes everything, particularly itself, too
seriously; but, we, being idealists, stand to defend our ideals, which
are mental discipline and intellectual aristocracy. Surely the poor Muses
are not to blame that they are so misshapen and unlovely, for they are
only the manifestation of a moving Cause behind them, which Cause, it
seems to us, is mental sloppiness, a lack of intellectual discipline. It
is in opposition to the basic reason of the artistic monstrosities of the
age, then, that our ideals lie.
Shelley, in the preface to Prometheus Unbound, says: “Poets, not
otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors, and musicians, are, in
one case, the creators, and in another, the creations, of their age”, and
it is there we may find, perhaps, the explanation, and at the same time a
hint as to the solution of the whole problem: the age with its chaos and
inefficient efficiency has created these inartistic artists; a new order
of artists could re-create a less chaotic order—it at least is a possible
solution. For plainly,—the terrific discordant elements hurtled into life
through the agency of the Great War are reflected on the arts. Huge,
subconscious forces, strong and like subway-trains jostling us onward
through the artificially-lighted dark, cannot but communicate themselves
with greatest intensity to the soul with the keenest sensibilities—to the
Artist; and the Artist, caught in the mighty whirligig of Time, rushed
on, unthinking, undisciplined for thought, to attain—anything. Never
having been thoroughly taught it, he has quite forgot, if he ever by
chance knew, that “genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains”. But
it is that that he should be taught; it is that which should absolutely
be driven home to him, lest chaos become dissolution.
And how? The answer, in part, is the old, old answer which must ring
true so long as discipline, intellectually, means the more perfect,
and therefore the more beautiful result—the Classics. In this age of
science, such a suggestion, no doubt, is heretical—but only consider it
for a moment, one small phase of it as it applies to us in the college
world. Consider the undergraduate in a university. Bewildered, he
becomes a freshman, and suddenly is presented with the sciences—myriad
sciences: chemistry, physics, biology, and the rest, for a year, at
least, and then, too, the great “dismal science”, Economics. Three or
four years of that last, in all its many inarticulate yet officially
supported branches, and he awakens, toward the end of his last year,
to a realization that there is something savoring, perhaps, of culture
somewhere in college: an unknown and irrevocably lost opportunity which
he can only regret. Then, prepared for life with mathematical formulæ
and economic theorizings, he steps forth, becomes a business man, and
is successful ordinarily. Well and good, but his period of usefulness
in business passes, and then, with a mind untrained save in a few
financial or mercantile facts, which life has taught him, with even the
interesting, if unsubstantial, formulæ of college days clean forgot, and
having no background in anything of lasting interest, he floats along,
uninterested and uninteresting, mentally lonely, physically unfitted
longer to engage in the strong competition with youth—unhappy.
The Sciences, of themselves are good enough, have interest, even
romance, but they are specialized, rarified to such a degree that they
do not teach life, nor do they prepare for life, while in their way,
the Classics are life. In them lie the elements of—Heaven spare the
mark!—“efficiency” as well as of beauty; in the study of them, the mind,
saturated with their clear-cut brilliance, and with their essential
beauty of thought and phrase—peaceful as a Greek temple, skillfully
ordered and arranged as a Pompeian dwelling—cannot but absorb those
elements and understand, far better, Life with all its niceties and its
intellectual challenges. The trained mind alone can overcome—but that
mind is not trained which can, parrot-like, recite formulæ, physical
laws, or bimetallic theories: that is a mind trained in the particular,
helpless outside of the special—and life and the living of life is not
particularism nor specialization.
And from where can the preparing of the cultured mind, and the fighting
away from the incubus of the formula come save from our universities?—In
Yale, of course, the great tradition of the cultural education, and the
influence of classicism, which—our intellectual re-Renaissance to the
contrary, notwithstanding—turned out capable and self-reliant minds for
generations before the war, the war abruptly cut off the moment it won
the battle of science for Science. And not only in Yale, but generally
throughout the East—and it was alone in the East that the Classic spirit
lived—the eviction of Culture was general. But Yale has an obsession to
continue to be one vast primary school for scientists, and the intellect
of the undergraduate suffers. Like it or no, the forcible entrance
of the Sciences reduced Culture to a phantom, and, to interpolate a
definition, by culture is meant those elements in the developed mind
which make it self-sufficient, content, and productive of Beauty. Such
undergraduates, these days, as want just those things must seek them out
on their own initiative, and find, in the quest, many surprising official
stumbling-blocks, and very little, if any, official assistance.
But it is just that that a university should stand for: it is the
production of great minds, trained in clear, broad ways of thinking,
self-sufficient, capable of escaping from the trammels of the every-day.
They must teach the thought-language of the great minds of the past
lest it be forgot, they must teach that universal language which the
future will understand, honor, and from which it will draw benefit. And
that, through a re-found stress on the training of minds, on the broad,
living principles of an Aristophanes or of a Horace. Of course, the
universities can do little without the co-operation of the preparatory
schools, but that co-operation must be instigated and forced by the
superior vision and power of the higher educational institutions. The
schools should stand firmly for a higher standard of mental discipline,
a better preparation for the more mature problems of college life with
all their challenges to the mind, just as the colleges, further advanced,
should endeavor to make men better prepared for life, and as the college
graduates’ living of life with that background should prepare them for
the quiet time of old age, when the intellectual failure or success of
life will count more—far more—than any pecuniary or social status. If
the king is weak, his subjects are weak, and often times revolt, and the
universities must not be weak. They, officially, and we undergraduates,
personally, should work toward a higher standard of intellect, for if
they and we do not, the next generation will not thank us for a heritage
of intellectual sloppiness—and may revolt. Above all, we must not be
satisfied with the average, but demand the exceptional, exceptional minds
and men, and more and more of them. And if the universities can hold as
their fixed purpose the creating and maintaining of this higher order,
and the creating again of a higher order still they will once more be
fulfilling the only requirements for their existence. But they cannot go
on blandly saying that all is well: all is _not_ well, and Pollyannaism
in so grave a question as that of laying the foundation for the mental
competence and the intellectual aristocracy of future generations is bad
taste, and is out of place. They cannot quietly take no notice of the
Classics, and say that in so far as they were driven out they had best
stay out: that is the easiest course to follow, and the easiest course is
seldom the best. Yale must be militant, and now that the war is over, she
should go back to pre-war—long pre-war—standards.
Be idealists with us, and look toward the Future! We must, together,
never forget that out of chaos comes chaos, that out of our communally
undisciplined intellects must come more undisciplined intellects, nor
that we, after all, count little in comparison to the coming generations,
for our potentialities we are realizing, or have realized, and their
potentialities are yet untouched.
“With infinite unseen enemies in the way
We have encountered the intangible,
To vanquish where our fathers, who fought well,
Scarce had assumed endurance for a day;
Yet we shall have our darkness, even as they,
And there shall be another tale to tell.”
Robinson so expresses “Modernity”—quietly enough, yet with a challenge.
Whether we have our darkness, whether we are encountering the
intangible—and it is not intangible in this instance—we must at least see
that another and more splendid tale shall be told by the next generation,
and, meeting the challenge of the present in the name of the Future,
vanquish, if it is in us.
ROBERT C. BATES.
_More Modern Love_
My destiny is less secure than lust
Which claims but earth,
Of less enduring worth,
Than dreams.... The iron reaches with its rust
Into my soul; the maggots of the clay
Stir with a hunger that is divinely just
For my allotted and inevitable decay.
My kinship with the stars is, in the play,
The tragedy of my return to dust.
For you I love, and for me whom I dream,
I rise out of the roots of my desire,
Lay a gold canopy fringed with the sun’s fire
Over our bodies whether they may seem
Clasped on a marriage-bed,
Or lying together pale in the sword’s gleam
Cold and clean and naked and so dead.
But surely I can never dare to deem
That for the flame there will not soon be lead.
The gifts of any memorable night
Are insufficient. Time will put aside
The record of those hours; Death deride
The laughter caught in their swift-plucked delight.
Life fades; they fade;
The moon returns; we singly retrograde
Turn to discover what is gone from sight.
More fortunate the way the rocks are made,
Insensate, undesired; for us a sorrier plight.
I order all the fictions of the past,
Deductions from the facts, to fashion law,
But analyzed, all things I ever saw,
Will not maintain a symmetry to the last.
No law will hold;
And though I tear the soil, am overbold,
Twisting and turning from the ultimate mould,
I cannot ever catch to bind God fast.
Beauty may come to me when I am old,
Now I see pearls, and know not by whom cast.
So I can give you only what may die,
My destiny, my mansions in the sky,
My longing for the Gods: I give you things
That only make me afraid that I am I
And still no more,—innate reechoings
Of trumpetings for deeds a long-time done,
Or is it that they are not yet begun?
For answer of the sort a mortal brings
Lust is a better mistress to have won.
Not understanding this, I tell you why
My heart sings thus;—Someday no more it sings.
MAXWELL E. FOSTER.
_Love Song_
Come, sweet maid, and walk with me
In the twilight hush:
By the wayside merrily
Pipes an autumn thrush,
While above the evening star
Hallows all the land.
I shall lead you safe and far ...
Give me but your hand.
Come, my love, and talk with me
Here a little space:
Often has this fallen tree
Been a trysting-place
Where young lovers two by two
Stole to speak unheard.
I shall pledge my love to you ...
Give me but a word.
Come, my dearest, live with me
Through the passing years:
Then in life together see
Beauty through the tears;
And death wisely ne’er withholds
Love like ours apart.
I shall know what heaven holds ...
Give me but your heart.
WALTER E. HOUGHTON, JR.
_In Pace Conquiescare_
Toward midnight, Paul Duval emerged from 355 McDougal Street, quietly
closed the battered door behind him, and descended the steps. He slouched
along the street, with the brim of his felt hat, which dangled over his
ears, flapping up and down to the rhythm of his stride. Probably, he
thought, some one would take him for a murderer or a burglar—although,
to be sure, such people use automobiles in this twentieth century. Paul
was especially conscious that the policeman leaning against a post of the
elevated railway, did peer at him searchingly, whistled something, and
twirled his stick meditatively. But perhaps all this was fancy, aided by
the dim light of the arcs.
It was, however, likely that Paul carried with him a remnant of the
atmosphere of the death-chamber he had just left—the green-walled room in
the rear of 355 where Hanaré Tierens had died—and that the remembrance of
this most recent experience created in his mind a marked sensitiveness to
ghostly things such as policemen and Greenwich Village arc-lights. That
calm, livid face, with its peculiarly French nose, had passed through
some experience of which Paul, at least, knew nothing. He still felt the
pressure of Hanaré’s hand, which he had held until the last moment. It
had relaxed and become dead. What a world of truth and wonder was there
in that moment, that relaxation!
Few men, Paul thought, had ever passed through emotions such as his own
had been. It was bad enough to see one’s old friend and adviser die; to
feel a hand relax, the way Hanaré’s had; to realize that it belonged no
longer to a friend or an adviser. This, Paul reflected, was bad enough.
But there had also been a girl—Hanaré’s daughter; a girl whom Paul had
passionately loved for the last five years; a girl whose drawn, white
face stood out now in his memory, like a ghost, to aggravate the torture
in his heart. These two had sat facing each other during the last hours,
when the doctor had gone, and the rest of the house was asleep. They had
not exchanged a word. The tragedy had been heightened by the silence.
Paul had expressed his love too often for her to be able to forget, even
at this time, the intensity of his passion. And once, when their eyes
met, he knew that in her young heart one more sorrow had thus been added
to her present burden—a sympathy for him, and a feeling of almost shame
that she could not respond to his love.
Then there had been a frightful kind of mental telepathy which carried
even his most involuntary thoughts over to her. How could he help
thinking that since she was now alone, without her father, she might
accept him as a lover and a protector? How could he avoid extending
his sympathy for her distress into a conviction that, since she needed
comfort, some overt expression of his love was justified? Indeed, once
when she had laid her head in despair upon the dying man’s breast, Paul
had stretched out his hand and stroked her hair. She had, then, taken his
hand in hers, pressed it, and released it. The situation only seemed to
strengthen the barrier between them, and to make them even more intensely
conscious of it.
These thoughts flowed slowly through Paul’s mind, now that he was out
on the street, walking toward his apartment. He cursed himself for his
selfishness and for bringing into a death-chamber such passions and
emotions, thereby to heighten a young girl’s distress. What if they were
the passions of a lifetime! What if they had caused him inexpressible
suffering! He was none the less a selfish brute, immersed in his own
selfishness.
Upon passing a quick-lunch room, he decided to enliven his tired mind by
indulging in some coffee and doughnuts. He opened the door, walked past
the shiny, white-topped tables, and approached the counter. Here he was
at once surprised by the beauty of the girl’s face, which confronted him,
and which stood out against the background of coffee containers, cups,
saucers, shredded wheat boxes, and the like, as though an inhabitant of
his dreams had been transposed to this earthly environment. Paul, who was
sleepy and dazed, stared at her until she was forced to drop her lashes
and hide from him the blue depths of her eyes.
“I am Paul Duval,” he said, in his absent-minded way, “and I should like
some coffee.”
The girl turned and drew it from the container. Paul watched her—the slim
back and the delicate, white skin which showed through her fine blouse.
“A strange world,” he sighed as she turned toward him with the coffee.
“Isn’t it?”
He had not meant it offensively. And as she gazed into his vague, grey
eyes, saw the sallow cheeks and the whimsical expression on the mouth,
she divined that he was not talking about the world but about himself.
“Do you think so?” she smiled.
“Don’t you?”
“I think you are a strange person!” she laughed, turned on her heel
gayly, and pretended to busy herself with something below the counter.
Paul noticed that her voice was quite cultured.
“Do you work here—always?” he asked.
“One week,” she passed nonchalantly from one little task to another.
“This is my first night’s work—my last, too—Fred was sick.”
“Who’s Fred?” Paul found it difficult to keep up with her.
“Night-man. Did you want anything else?” She leaned across the counter,
exposing her slim arms, and a pair of delicate hands. She looked up at
him, laughing.
Stupidly he remembered that he had come there to drink coffee. He fumbled
for his cup.
“No,” he said, “—eh—that is—I’d like some doughnuts.”
She procured the doughnuts, and Paul reluctantly shambled off to a nearby
table, where he sat down, facing the counter. It was indeed strange that
this girl should exert so much attraction over him. He had seen beautiful
women before during his twenty-six years of varied existence. However,
he remembered with a smile that since women had meant anything to him at
all, he had been in love: first with a stolidly serious young lady, who
was now married to a man much older than herself, and then with Marie
Tierens. This latter affair had been going on for the past five or six
years. It had become his ideal. It had given Paul the conviction that if
a man is going to marry a decent woman,—well—the least he can do is to be
decent himself. At the heart of civilization, he thought, lay the unitary
standard. And thus he had crossed in safety numerous pitfalls which
present themselves to the average hack-writer—the small dealer in ideas.
But to-night, ah, well—even one’s deepest ideals are shattered at times.
The excruciating emotions of the past few hours had left him like a
rudderless ship, adrift in a sea of bewildering passions. Hanaré was gone
now. Without Hanaré life could never be the same. And Hanaré’s daughter
had changed. She had become an independent woman. There was defiance in
her eyes, instead of that ancient girlishness which had always kept hope
alive in Paul’s heart. Indeed, the world had changed. For better or for
worse, Paul, too, had changed.
In those intense moments of a man’s lifetime, wherein the past, together
with the ideals which epitomize the past, are relinquished and a new
method of life undertaken—in those moments a man is not fully conscious
of all that he is doing. He moves in response to the predominant feeling
in his heart. And there opens up before him new and unexplored vistas of
life, at the other end of which he hopes to find some sort of Eldorado.
To-night Paul was craving for beauty. Beauty to alleviate the coarseness
of the death-chamber. Beauty to help him forget the face and the eyes of
a girl who could no longer truly be called “his” girl.
He was awakened from his short reverie by a voice close beside him.
“Good-night,” it said cheeringly. Paul looked up to behold the girl of
the counter, in a blue serge dress, with a dark blue hat slanted to one
side of her head. She waved to him as she passed. Paul gathered his queer
legs together, and arose.
“Eh—are you going?”
The girl turned. “Yes,” she said, “I’m only on duty until one o’clock.”
“Really? Is it _that late_?” He felt for his watch, but could not find it.
“Good-night,” said the girl again.
“I say,” said Paul, as though he were embarrassed, “perhaps—well—wouldn’t
it be rather nice if I were to take you home? We could—eh—go
somewhere—dance—first.”
“Dance! At one o’clock?” she laughed. “I don’t think we could.”
“Of course.”
She made no move to go, nor did Paul, who was standing close to her. At
length she took hold of his arm.
“Well, are you coming?”
They walked out of the restaurant and down the deserted street together.
* * * * *
The night spent itself. Some sort of a dawn crept across the city and
touched the edges of the windows in the rear of 355 McDougal Street. As
the grey light penetrated the room on the third floor, a girl, who had
been lying across the body of a dead man, arose, looked stupidly about
her, rubbed her eyes, and went over to the window where she gazed across
the damp Greenwich Village roofs. She thought, perhaps, that she was
going mad, with this silence which penetrated her whole nature, like the
cold dawn that had just penetrated the night. But, strangely enough, it
was not altogether her own loneliness, nor yet the painful sense of loss
at the death of her father, nor even the ghostliness of his figure on
the bed, that was thus driving her toward insanity. Rather, it was the
remembrance of Paul’s face, the knowledge of his suffering for her, and
the feeling that, although she could never love him—really love him, as
she had pictured love in her girlhood dreams—still, the death of her
father had removed the last tangible excuse which she had to offer him.
She felt that it was not right to add to his sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a
still larger grief caused by her own selfishness.
She smiled tearfully as she gazed out of the window. Why, she was making
it appear like a case of duty!—and, of course, no one ought to marry for
duty. Actually, it was not altogether a case of duty. Actually, she was
alone—and afraid of her own loneliness. Indeed, the image of Paul came to
her like a light shining through the darkness. He was forced upon her, by
the strength of circumstances. Hanaré was gone now. Without Hanaré life
could never be the same. Paul had become essential to her very existence.
Love him or not, he was essential to her existence.
As the sun rose and the day wore on, and she went about her necessary
tasks, it seemed to her almost as though she loved Paul. She had never
had a feeling quite so compelling as this. Before her father’s death, she
had never wished to marry. She had contemplated some sort of a career,
with her painting and her sculpture, which she inherited from Hanaré.
Besides, her father had needed her. He had been a solitary man, with few
friends, a dreamy personality, and so absent-minded that he required
her constant attention. Thus life had seemed to her best, close to her
father’s side, managing the little household, and doing her art at her
leisure. The thought of children to take care of revolted her. And as
yet no passion had entered her life, sufficiently powerful to make this
secluded existence seem trivial or repulsive. Nor was there anything
about Paul Duval to attract her strongly. He was the nicest and kindest
man in the world, and he loved Hanaré; but for a husband—well—what was
the use of a husband, anyway?
She felt differently now. She wanted Paul. Yet all day he stayed away.
Toward evening there came to her again the sensation that she was going
mad. It was simply inhuman of Paul to leave her alone like this. There
had been, of course, the neighbors, who offered their sympathetic
assistance, and who tried to comfort this strange, silent girl, whom none
of them understood. But because of her yearning for Paul, the neighbors
only aggravated her nervous sorrow. And although she had consented to
sleep with an elderly woman in another part of the house, until her
father should be buried, nevertheless, late that night, she felt herself
irresistibly drawn to Hanaré’s stiff corpse; and she crept into the
ghostly room, in her night-gown, to appease that unnatural craving. This
was about ten o’clock. She sat for some minutes on the edge of the bed,
but could find no consolation. Suddenly she jumped up with the wild
resolve to go to Paul’s apartment and find out what had happened to him.
She reflected, as she slipped on her clothes, that this was a most
unwomanly course of action. She was impelled toward it by the almost
inhuman nature of her circumstances. She hoped Paul would understand.
She hoped nothing had happened to him. Perhaps she could even be of some
comfort to him, in this recent sorrow which so obviously depressed him.
In fact, as she made her away along the winding streets of Greenwich
Village, Marie began to feel almost exultant. A new joy entered her
heart, because she was relieving herself of intolerable burdens, and
because, too, she was bringing to Paul a surprise-present for which he
had been waiting many years. She began timidly to picture to herself
Paul’s expression, first upon seeing her, and later—perhaps even days
later—when he should realize what this new resolve of hers meant to
both of them. She found herself immensely relieved at the thought of
transferring her small belongings from her present dreary apartment to
his own. Her collection of books, her pictures, yes, and even her paints
and her sculptor’s tools—all these she would show to Paul as belonging to
both of them together. In his eyes and in his mouth would come that look
of appreciation for things which were such precious possessions. It would
be inexpressible relief! A happy life! They were both dreamers—
She arrived, a trifle breathless, at his apartment, which was four
stories up in a brick building that boasted of no elevator. She knocked
several times on the thin, wooden door, but no one answered. So she tried
the door knob, found that it was unlatched, opened the door timidly, and
gazed in. There was a vestibule leading into the sitting-room, and since
the latter was lighted, she proceeded on tip-toe toward it. Upon entering
she perceived a long, narrow room, hazy with tobacco smoke and heavy with
the odor of stale whiskey. The bric-a-brac and furniture were in a state
of disorder. There were a couple of empty bottles on the table—glasses
and books. She perceived a thin, sallow figure, sprawled out in the
morris chair, staring at her in a glazed way, like a dead man.
“Paul!” she cried.
Paul moved slowly, blinked his eyes, shuddered. “Eh?”
“Paul!”
“I should not have wished you to see me like this,” he said, as though
her coming were the most natural thing in the world.
“Are you—all right?”
“Yes, a little dazed.”
“Why have you been drinking?”
He sighed and bowed his head, in a tired way, until his chin touched his
disordered bow-tie. But he did not answer.
Impulsively Marie ran over to his side and knelt there, with her arms
upon the chair.
“Are—are you drunk, Paul?” She had rarely seen drunken men.
He raised his head then and looked into her eyes, which were so close
to his. “No,” he said. “I have been drinking, but I am not drunk. I
am merely dazed, by death, and by life—but mostly by life. Life is so
strange. Have you never thought that?”
“Yes.”
“No—no—no! Not the way I have thought it. You only know the half of
life—Hanaré’s half. You have inherited, now, Hanaré’s domain. Innocent,
childish Hanaré! You are the mistress of his innocence and his naïveté.
But it will never—never—never be the same again.”
“Paul! What do you mean?”
“_O Welt du bist so nichtig!_
_Du bist so klein, O Rom!_”
They lapsed into silence then, for Marie saw that he was in one of those
unintelligible moods, which had often come upon him, but which she had
never seen so pronounced.
“Why did you stay away all day?” she asked.
“Have I been away all day? I had forgotten.”
“I have been lonely and miserable, Paul.”
“I am sorry. I have forgotten.”
“How could you forget?”
“How? There are plenty of ways to forget.” He arose and strode up and
down the room restlessly.
“How could _I_ forget?” She looked at him as though he had wounded her.
“I don’t know.”
They were silent while Paul continued to walk up and down. At length he
proceeded.
“Certainly my being there wouldn’t have helped much, would it? It isn’t
as though you had ever allowed me to love you or comfort you! God knows,
I’ve been ready to do so—any time. I thought you hated me. Do you?”
“Yes,” she replied, “at this moment I hate you intensely.”
“Why did you come here, then—if you hate me?”
“O Paul, Paul! Because I needed you!”
He stared at her. This woman! “I didn’t suppose anybody needed me now,
except the devil.”
He saw then that she was crying and that he had hurt her tremendously.
He saw distinctly that he had been unjust. But his mind could not piece
together the broken fragments of the situation. He, too, had been
unjustly treated: it was not fair for a woman to allow a man to love her
for six years, and to hold herself away from him merely for the sake of
her own career—her own whimsical happiness. He felt that in the hour of
need Marie had not been with him. He felt this even more keenly than his
own cruelty toward her now.
“My God!” he exclaimed, in the midst of his meditation. “What twenty-four
hours will do!”
There was undisguised bitterness in his words; a bitterness which Marie,
conscious of the unprecedence of her behavior, construed as an expression
of his scorn for what she called her “unwomanliness”. Her excited mind
only served to intensify the horrid picture which she had drawn of
herself. To think that she had come this way to Paul, of all people!
Even the awful atmosphere of her father’s death-chamber could not excuse
her for doing so. She wished that she could hide herself away. She was
ashamed of her body—her very existence.
But Paul was not thinking of these things. He was merely astounded at the
change that the night had wrought in himself.
“I wish to hell Hanaré hadn’t died,” he exclaimed suddenly, and without
any reason for it. “Life is nothing but a constant attempt to adjust
ourselves to the tragedy of existence. Since we cannot tell to-day what
will happen to-morrow, we never quite succeeded in our adjustments: and
so, there’s always a tragedy. We go on and on—like that!”
He felt master of himself now. But Marie supposed that he was lecturing
her. There was an element of brutality in it.
“If we were automatons,” Paul proceeded, as though the sound of his
own voice helped to drive away the real tragedy behind—“if we were all
automatons, who acted out one day the same as any other, incapable of
making fools out of ourselves,—why then, life might be worth living. But
some fool of a God—a _fool_ God—gave us this power to make mistakes.
Marie, for the past six years both our lives have been mistakes. And now
just see what you have done—and what _I_ have done.”
Marie stood facing him, and clenched her fists.
“Paul Duval, you are undoubtedly the most unfeeling man in the world—the
most pitiless—the most un—unreasonable. I know I’m a little fool! Do you
suppose I have no sensibilities? Do you sup—? Oh, heaven!” She fell back
again into the armchair, weeping.
The situation between them had changed tremendously in one night, because
his ideals had become incompatible with her ideals, his life had lost
that simplicity and innocence which they had once shared together. Paul
found that his love for her, just yesterday so vivid and passionate,
had changed, and had converted itself into a red and golden derelict of
the past, which he still loved, though in a different way. Like Dante,
his love for a face and a living body had transformed itself into an
intellectual remembrance—an ideal—a hope which, while it might later
be fulfilled in some immortal existence, had lost, once and forever,
its earthly potency. Just as the death of Beatrice had forced Dante to
relinquish the earthly passion, so the death of Hanaré, which brought the
confusing emotions of last night, had led Paul to reconceive Marie and
transform her into a vanished reality, an ideal, rather than a living
being. He had tasted, now, that side of life which does not permit of the
more refined loves.
Indeed it was a strange position to be in: and the tragedy of it lay in
the fact that he could never make it clear to Marie why he had done as he
had, and why the relationship between them was now changed. Tremendous,
this change!—almost infinite in character. Especially, she would never
understand how it had come about so quickly. He sighed. “With questions
like this,” he said, “of life and death—time has little, if anything, to
do.”
He began to reflect that the course he had taken was an evil one. And
although the forces which had led him along this course were still
potent, nevertheless the sudden apparition of Marie into the midst of
them recalled his old life with her, if nothing else. And this feeling,
that he had better go back, repent, and, if possible, forget the slight
digression of the night before, grew upon him, just as a glimmer of
light, which increases in intensity, turns at last into a ball of fire.
He even came to the conclusion that it was his duty to marry her. He felt
that he had no right to add to her sorrow for Hanaré’s death, a still
larger grief caused by his own selfishness.
He smiled then. He was making it out to be a wretched case of duty—and
of course no one ought to marry for duty. Actually it was not altogether
a case of duty. Actually he was alone in a new sea of conflicting
passions, lost ideals, and hopelessness,—and he was afraid of his own
loneliness. Indeed, the picture of Marie sitting there came to him as
a light shining through the darkness. He no longer loved her. True.
But he felt that in her he could find some salvation from the horrible
destiny which immediately confronted him, and a relief from his present
wretchedness.
“Marie,” he said suddenly. “You know that I have loved you!”
“Yes. You have said so. I believe it.”
“Last night there came into my life something which you could not
understand—which I cannot explain now—which some day I hope to forget.”
She looked up at him, anxiously, as though fearing unknown things.
“Ah, don’t look at me that way. Let the past take care of the past. You
shall know some day. I will tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
“Because you would not understand—you would not appreciate—nor could I
tell it as it is.”
“You only arouse my worst fears by talking this way,” she said. “I came
to you as a friend, for consolation. I came in order to forget that
horrible room. I wanted your companionship—perhaps for always. But you
have only succeeded in making me more disturbed. I do not understand you.”
He went over to her chair, and sat down beside her, and put his arm
around her.
“Come,” he said. “You and I must escape the tragedy of our existence.
Together we will fly away from it. You will forget that room, and I—I
shall forget myself.”
She drew away from him a little—from his impetuosity. “I don’t love you,
that way,” she said.
“Great heaven! Nor do I love you _that_ way, any more. You are too
idealistic, Marie. Marriage, for you and me, is no longer an ideal, but a
necessity. We will escape, that way. We will rest in peace and Hanaré’s
death will be forgotten.”
She made no reply, but sat there as though meditating. Suddenly, from far
out in the city, came the boom of a clock—a lonely thing beating the
hour of midnight. It awoke Paul to realities. And, although he had so far
been master of the situation, he now lost control of himself, and cried:
“Twelve o’clock! You must go now, you must go!” And as she stared at him,
mystified, he cried again, “You must go, you must go!”
He took her arm, and she arose. They stood facing each other.
“Promise me,” he said, “that you will marry me—to-morrow.”
She dropped her eyes. Impulsively he took her in his arms and kissed
her—not passionately, but as he would a little child. And then he led her
toward the vestibule.
Even then there was a knock at the door. He did not answer. He looked at
Marie, and she at him.
“Who is that?” she asked.
He turned bitterly away. “Nobody! Fate!”
The door opened, since he had given no answer. There was a moment of
suspense while the visitor was hidden in the vestibule. Then the girl
of the counter, looking extraordinarily pretty, came toward them. She
started imperceptibly upon seeing Marie, but regained her composure.
“Good evening,” she said.
“Good evening,” Paul replied, but did not move.
The girl proceeded to take off her hat in front of the mirror, and to
make herself at home, adjusting her brown hair prettily and helping
herself to a cigarette from the box on the table. “You look tired,” she
said “And the room’s a mess. Is there no one to clean up for you?”
Paul did not answer.
Marie could do nothing but stare. She stared at the girl and then at
Paul. Suddenly she ran toward the door and was gone.
“Who was that?” asked the girl.
“That is Hanaré Tierens’ daughter. Why did you come?”
“You told me to come at twelve.”
Paul sat down and put his hands over his face. “You have ruined
everything,” he said.
“So you told me last night.”
“Did I? I had forgotten.”
“You said an old friend had died—and that you were in love with his
daughter.”
“Really? I was quite frank, wasn’t I?” Her reference to Marie exasperated
him.
“Don’t be cross.” She came up close to him and put her hand upon his
shoulder.
“I am not going to kiss you,” said Paul, anticipating her.
“I haven’t asked you to, have I?”
“No; but I’m going to marry Ma—Hanaré’s daughter.”
“There! I knew you had something like that in your mind! You look so—so
determined,” she laughed, in spite of her obvious vexation.
“I _am_ determined.”
“What are you going to do with me?”
He started. “You? You aren’t going to make a fuss about it, are you?”
“That’s impudent!” She turned away from him and sat down upon the sofa
restlessly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you needn’t be! Last night you let me know well enough what you
thought of me. But I don’t mind, because I know that is what I am. I
can’t remember ever being anything else; though, of course, if one is
to be a man’s mistress, one has the right of choosing the man. I prefer
education to ignorance, and a decent amount of politeness to mere
brutality.”
“I am not merely brutal!” He stood up and faced her as he said it. “It’s
you who are brutal—or at least you will be before you have done with me.
Women are all cruel, because they understand men so well. Our souls are
torn first by one and then by the other. I should like to make you see,
however, that I have a duty to perform.”
“Duty?” She arose from the sofa, and came to stand beside him again.
“A duty to myself and—to some one else.”
“There’s a difference between duty and love, isn’t there?” This time she
appeared to have no scruples, for she put her arms around him, frankly,
and stood looking up at him. He held himself rigidly away from her.
“I am not going to kiss you,” he said again. That appeared to be his last
defense in any case.
She made no answer to that, except to deny it with her eyes.
“You’re a witch!” he cried, drawing away from her suddenly. “A positive
instrument of the devil. Leave me alone!”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I am going to marry Marie. Because, for Hanaré’s sake, I’m
going to forget you. I was a fool last night.”
“Last night you said you’d rather be a fool than a wise man. I suppose
you have forgotten _that_ also.”
He cringed. “No,” he said, “I have not forgotten that.” He began
wandering about the room as though hunting for something, picking up
piles of papers, looking underneath the tables and chairs.
“What are you hunting for?” she asked.
“My hat.”
“Do you want to go out?”
“I’m going out. You can do as you please. I’m going over to see Marie.”
“Marie? At this time of night?”
He found his hat behind the sofa. He put it on, pulling the soft brim far
down over his eyes.
“Good-night,” he said casually, as he walked out of the room. He was
not fully conscious that there was anybody else there. He had one
determination. In view of that everything else was forgotten.
Vain resolve! The windows at 355 McDougal Street were brilliantly
lighted, policemen were in front of the door, people stared, and there
was general confusion. Some one had been killed. Paul learned, finally,
that Marie had committed suicide.
He felt, rather, that he had committed murder.
Thus, when he return to his own apartment and found the girl still there,
he was glad to forget Hanaré’s death that way instead.
RUSSELL WHEELER DAVENPORT.
_Portfolio_
_Melody_
My lady sitteth on a shrine
And dreameth beauteously.
She dreameth much, her deep eyes shine
Like stars on a quiet sea.
And to watch her hands so soft and white
Is a never-ending, sweet delight.
Lady of Day, Lady of Night,
Queen of the World is she.
FRANK D. ASHBURN.
_Inspiration_
The smoking-room gave a terrific lurch. As if the motion had been a
signal, Carlos Bentley abruptly broke off his sentence, at the same time
removing his hand from the arm of his companion’s chair. Although the big
steamer recovered almost immediately from the unexpected blow, Carlos
continued to remain silent, his gaze wandering uncertainly around the
comfortable room. But he did not notice particularly the brown sleekness
of the leather chairs nor the subtle masculinity of the lighting. He was
wondering whether he had not again let his tongue run away with his good
taste in allowing it to run on over the history of his past two weeks to
this gentleman to whom he had introduced himself. That was one of Carlos’
_bête-noirs_—a cheerful frankness and lack of reserve that made him
communicate things he wished later he had kept to himself. But after all
the fellow had looked lonely and— A polite question which interrupted his
train of thought finished by driving the self-reproaches from his mind.
He answered the question at some length.
“Oh, yes! We spent six months in Paris. I got to know the place quite
well—well enough to get tired of it. I’m looking forward to New York as a
change. If it hadn’t been for my wife, I’d have come back before, but she
insisted on our staying—for my own good, she said. You see, I went over
to study art—portraits mainly. Spent hours every day looking at pictures
and trying to copy them.”
“Do you plan to take up art as a profession?” asked his companion,
knocking the ashes from his pipe. He was an elderly man who had an air of
demanding confidences with a view of solving any difficulties connected
with them from the depths of a thoughtful urbanity.
Carlos hesitated a moment.
“Yes,” he said finally, “I expect to. That’s my ultimate aim. But, of
course, after all this studying I’ll want a bit of a rest—say a month or
so. Then I’ll be ready to get down to work.”
The other nodded a thoughtful assent. Then—
“You’ll pardon the remark, but—you have an income, I take it.”
Bentley nodded.
“Very fortunate, very fortunate indeed. So many poor devils have to
start with literally nothing but their talent. You’re unusually blessed.
Well, I must be getting to bed. We dock early to-morrow, I believe.
I’ve enjoyed talking to you immensely, and you’ll pardon my leaving so
abruptly, won’t you? Good-night.”
Carlos stood gazing after him a moment; then, turning away, went off in
the direction of his own stateroom. He had an uneasy feeling that the man
had not quite approved of him, although he was unable to explain what he
himself had said that could have given ground for such an opinion.
When he got to his stateroom, he found a message that his wife had left
on his bureau before going to bed. It had come by wireless that evening
and was from his father. On opening it, he read:
“Meet you at pier. Glad you are settling down to work at last.
DAD.”