RENO ROMANCE
Reno and Romance go hand in hand I should say. If you asked half a
dozen of your friends what the word Romance means, I dare say each one
would give a different answer. I think one of the most beautiful plays
I have ever seen was a play called "Romance"; yet to me the play
seemed rather a tragic story.... I have looked up the word in an
English dictionary and it gives the definition, "An imaginative story,
fiction." How prosaic! To me Romance has always been something
poetical and very real indeed.
At any rate, it is real in Reno; everywhere there is evidence of it;
and it is easy to lay one's finger on the romantic cases. Just peep
into the room of this new arrival; there is a bower of beautiful
flowers, and there is a telegram on the dressing table. The lady's
lawyer had been telegraphed to and has given instructions that a
garden of flowers be arranged as a welcome to the fair exile; the
telegram contains words of encouragement and consolation.
I heard of many romances that were beautiful and interesting; that
pictured to my mind youthful mistakes righted, dreams realized and
ideal future homes, with love reigning supreme and peace and harmony
keeping the charm ever radiant. I can't tell you about all of them,
therefore I shall select the one I thought most beautiful. The heroine
of my selected romance is Mrs. Beuland, of Virginia.
Never have I found it so difficult to describe a woman as I find it to
describe Mrs. Beuland; I wish I could picture to you this most unusual
woman as I knew her in the southland, a mere girl of sixteen; as I
think of her now she brings to my mind a poem of William Wordsworth:
"I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too:
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food--
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."
Yes, she was like a poem, with much of the untamed grace of a panther,
and the gentleness of a dove.....
In Balzac's unique story, "A Passion in the Desert," a question is
asked: "How did their friendship end?" The answer is, "Like all great
passions--in a misunderstanding. One suspects the other. One is too
proud to ask for an explanation and the other too stubborn to offer
it." And so it was with Mrs. Beuland, else I should not be recording
her romance here.
I am glad the story of Balzac did not read: "Like all great loves,"
because I believe that a great love always brings with it harmony and
understanding. The misunderstanding in this case was due to the fact,
that the girl did not know that under this great passion lay
slumbering a wonderful love of everlasting endurance.
Surely the heroine of this romance was deserving of a great love. She
was like a sunbeam when she entered a room, she always brought
gladness; she radiated the joy of living.
She rode like a princess, danced like a fairy, was a child of nature
and at the same time a woman of the world. I have seen her romp in a
daisy field and gather flowers with the children, as much a child as
any of them, and a few hours later I have met her in a drawing room,
an entirely different person, all dignity and self possession.
Mrs. Beuland was a daughter of one of the first families of Virginia;
tall and stately, with a splendid, graceful physique, blue eyes, black
hair and olive skin. Her physical charm and mental attraction were
always struggling for supremacy.
She was a girl of many moods; sometimes the joy of living would just
radiate from her and her care-free laughter and musical voice would be
that of a happy child; another time her eyes would lose the sparkling,
captivating expression and become dreamy and thoughtful, as though
they were peering into the great beyond; her voice would tremble with
earnestness as she would discuss some serious subject. And then again
there would be a note of sadness, though never of bitterness.
I knew Mrs. Beuland as Nell Wilbur in Virginia, before her marriage to
Mr. Beuland. Her family were among the victims of the Civil War who
were left paupers after the wreckage of the South.
Nell Wilbur had always been proud, willful and highly strung. Her
mother had died young. Her father after futile attempts to guide her
steps in the right direction, finally concluded that it was better to
let her have her head; she would run away with the bit anyway. She
might break her neck, but she surely would have to learn life's
lessons in her own way, and she did.
Her family tried to make a match for her but she refused, saying, "I
want to be the captain of my own soul; I will make my own mistakes":
and she kept her word. Just seventeen, she went to visit an aunt in
New York, glowing with youth and health, with a mind full of romance
and ideals; an enthusiast, and a dreamer of dreams. She at once found
herself surrounded by devoted admirers, all rivaling with each other
in their efforts to please her. One young millionaire, finding that
she was fond of equestrian sports, offered her the pick of his
stables, whereupon the young Virginian lifted her eyes in surprise as
she said: "But where would I ride? Your little old park isn't big
enough to ride in, and the people all look as though they dropped out
of a Fifth Avenue shop window. If you would come with me for a cross
country gallop in Virginia, you would understand that I could not
possibly be interested in doing living pictures in Central Park!"
Among the hosts of Miss Wilbur's admirers there were two who
interested the young lady; one a splendid young English lawyer, rich
and handsome: the other, a young New York artist, poor but
interesting, very sincere, very intellectual and with strong
personality.
Both men had many faults, though they had their full share of fine
qualities as well. The faults that were most annoying to Miss Wilbur
in the young lawyer (whose name by the way was Glen Royce) were his
profound conceit and his sensual nature. There was some excuse for him
because the Gods had endowed him with all their charms; he was an
Adonis, Apollo and all the other Greek Gods in one. I don't think I
have ever seen two people so near physical perfection as Nell Wilbur
and Glen Royce. They seemed to be made for each other; every one had
decided that they would surely be married. Young Royce was madly in
love, and though Miss Wilbur lavished her smiles on the young artist,
Will Beuland, no one thought that he had the slightest chance.
Miss Wilbur's aunt invited a party of the young people to Atlantic
City for the Easter holidays, and I was lucky enough to be asked, my
principal pleasure being in watching the ideal young lovers. They were
always perfectly groomed; always stunning; in morning dress, bathing
suits and evening clothes, alike charming. The last evening before our
return I was in the reception room when Nell appeared dressed for
dinner. I watched young Royce when, with all the grace of a prince, he
rose to receive her. She was in rose satin and chiffon, with a cluster
of pink blossoms in her hand, like the herald of spring; so soft and
delicately tinted were her beautifully moulded shoulders that one
could scarcely perceive where the soft clinging chiffon left off. She
was startlingly beautiful, and as I watched the man as he touched her
hand, I could have sworn that all the blood in his veins had turned to
liquid fire.
I made some excuse and left them alone. The balcony was dark and
deserted, and I betook myself to its seclusion. I think the lovers
must have forgotten about the balcony; I am quite sure he had
forgotten everything but the vision before him. He was living in the
world that never was; the sound of flutes was wafted on the breeze
from fairyland. Pulsing bosom and sheen of sun-kissed shoulders....
Ah! maddening modesty and virtue, how inconsistent are thy ways! No
wonder so many forget about the cursed serpent....
Through the windows I saw the man lead the woman to a cluster of palms
in a far corner of the big room, seat her on a divan in the shadow of
the palms and drop on his knees before her. The next moment she was in
his arms. He had meant to propose the same as we read in books, but
his lips were too near the woman's delicately tinted breast... He
kissed her lips, her eyes, her bosom and shoulders; he was like the
rush of a bursting river whose waters cry out in ecstasy of liberation
as they leap in the sunshine.
That evening at dinner the engagement was informally announced. There
was, however, something in Miss Wilbur's manner that I could not quite
fathom; that something which completes the happiness of two people who
love each other was lacking. It was not until ten years later when I
met Mrs. Beuland in Reno, that I understood the shadow.
I knew that the young lawyer had failed to induce Miss Wilbur to
consent to an early wedding, and after much persuasion Mr. Royce
returned to England alone. Later it was rumored that the engagement
had been broken off; then we heard that Mr. Royce had committed
suicide; again that he had married; another time that he was returning
to America to press his suit.
Miss Wilbur was very reticent about the subject and continued to
receive the attentions of the young artist, Will Beuland, and some six
months after Mr. Royce returned to England she was married to the New
York artist. No one seemed surprised, though it caused much gossip.
Fancy my astonishment when ten years later I met the stately Mrs.
Beuland in the lobby of my hotel in Reno. I had not seen her since her
marriage; the only difference the years had made, apparently, was that
now she was a woman instead of a girl, and yes, there was just a wisp
of snowy white hair among the black locks about her forehead, which
made her look even more aristocratic, if that was possible.
When one is lonely and alone in a strange place, it is most agreeable
to find an unexpected friend; and when one has a heavy heart, it is
good to confide in a sympathetic friend; so Mrs. Beuland and I became
close companions. I was fortunately able to lend a helping hand and
cheer the lonely way of this charming and much loved woman. One day as
we were chatting on the banks of the Truckee, she said to me: "Do you
know, it does seem such a pity that one of the most beautiful things
on earth really causes the most trouble!" "What is that?" I replied.
"Youthful ideals," she replied.
"For a youthful ideal I have paid long years of misery, and have spent
that time as an apprentice in the workshop of wisdom. Tardy wisdom,
the mother of all real enduring happiness. Because of a youthful ideal
I did not marry the man I really loved; instead I married the man I
thought I loved. I wanted to be the companion and friend and ideal
mate and intellectual partner through life to the man I married; those
were my ideals.
"The moment I promised myself to the man I loved I found myself
clasped tightly in passion's mad embrace; a mad passion by youth's
fierce fires fed; his kisses hotly pressed on my lips burned into my
very soul and made my heart sick. Was that love? It was certainly not
my ideal, to be the toy of mad passion!
"Ah! where was wisdom's tardy voice that it did not whisper: 'God made
men thus: there are no perfect men!'....
"How true it is that ideals are simply mental will-o'-the-wisps!....
"I married for ideals, not for love. I was in love with the ideal, and
the man I married led me to believe he was that ideal; picture my
heart-aching disappointment when I found that his art was his real
bride, and that I was a sort of understudy; hardly that, after the
first few months. I awoke to the fact that I had exchanged my youth
and freedom for a domestic mill that sank all my ideals into
commonplace. I said I would make my own mistakes and I did. Then came
the long battle with my pride, and I suffered in silence. For seven
long years I faced neglect and humiliation; and then one day after a
visit to my old home, I returned to find my husband and one of his
models occupying my very home.... my very bed. I turned and left the
place without a word.
"For the first time in my life I grew bitter; I wondered if it were
true, that realization kills all the joys we anticipate; if all our
rosy dreams turn gray in the face of cold reality.
"I was sick at heart and alone, too proud to go to anyone with my
troubles; it seemed to me that day by day the color was fading out of
my life. I had for years given all my love gifts only to answer duty's
call and one by one the leaves of my romance began to fall, until
jealousy, like a cancer, had eaten into my aching heart, and left me
stripped of everything, even hope....
"My thoughts were muddled; I could not think clearly: it was a day in
early June: I did not know where to go, and I did not want to meet
anyone I knew. I never knew quite how or why, but a few hours later I
found myself in Atlantic City. I arrived there in the evening and
after refreshing myself, I walked out on the board walk and almost to
the end of it, until there was no one in sight: and then I went down
on the sand and there I seated myself. I thought, with the big silver
moon overhead and the waves breaking on the shore, I should be able to
think out some plan for the future. I don't know how long I sat there,
but I know the only thoughts that came to me were that in my case I
was forever through with romance, sentiments and ideals. There was a
storm raging in my soul, and bitter resentment in my heart; I had
meant so well and it had all come to this. I looked at my watch: it
was nearly eleven; I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to dine,
that my head ached and that I was tired. I got up and started back to
the hotel. Then a miracle happened; it sounds like fiction but I swear
it is the truth.....
"I heard my name called; it sounded as though it were an echo out of
the past. I looked up.... a tall gentleman was standing by me looking
down into my face; 'Good evening, Mrs. Beuland, this is indeed a
pleasant surprise." Glen Royce....You know our story, and as I had not
heard from him in years you can imagine my surprise.
"Mr. Royce had been in America just one week; he had come over on
business and just thought it would be interesting to run down and have
a peep at the sea. I think both our thoughts traveled back over the
years to the Easter time we spent together there....
"'How long are you remaining?' he asked after a little pause. 'About a
week,' I replied. 'May I call tomorrow then?' 'Yes,' I said, 'but I
have just arrived and am rather tired; if you will excuse me I will
leave you now.' He saw me to my hotel and said good night. I never
knew quite what was said or what really happened, however. I slept
soundly from sheer exhaustion, and awakened the next morning
refreshed, but unable to realize that everything was not a dream.
"Then the 'phone rang. 'Good morning, Mrs. Beuland; this is Glen Royce
speaking; hope I haven't called you too early? Will you come for a
walk? It is a beautiful day.' I did and before the day was over, I had
made a confidant of this old sweetheart of mine, and extracted a
promise from him, a very foolish, silly promise.
"'I want so much to be your friend,' he said, 'there must be something
I can do to make your burden lighter.' I told him that I would accept
his friendship under one condition, that he would promise not to make
love to me, and so the courtship was started all over again on a
friendship basis, though I did not realize it at the time. Later he
made me tell him why I broke our engagement, and when I explained he
understood, and blamed it on a misunderstanding.
"I thought him a much finer man than he was ten years ago, but of
course that is only the wisdom that comes with the years. It has been
three years since I met him that evening, when I was blind with utter
despair. That's the story so far! My case will be called tomorrow; if
I am lucky I will be free, and then he is coming out and we will be
married here and spend our honeymoon in California. I want you to be
my only attendant. Things have turned out so that he is to remain in
America; we have a beautiful little home near New York, down by the
sea. When you go back East you must come and see us."
And so the happy day arrived, just as the sun was sinking down behind
Mount Rose; we stood in the silent church; I held the flowers, a huge
bouquet of simple spring blossoms, while the groom slipped the little
gold band on the bride's finger and the organ pealed out the
benediction....
A few months later I arrived in New York and telephoned, "Hello, Nell,
is that you? Here I am, may I come out, or are you two still
honeymooning?" The answer came back: "We are still honeymooning, but
you may come out; in fact, I am just crazy to see you. You will never
find the way alone; meet Glen at his office and come out with him
tonight!" And I did. The bride was at the station to meet us,
radiantly happy. We motored over a beautiful bit of country and in
about ten minutes came to a beautiful villa, with beautiful gardens
and a glimpse of the sea in the distance; it did my soul good to watch
this picture of domestic bliss. They were like a boy and girl again,
up to their eyes in love and gloriously happy.
"A love and happiness with wisdom as its basis and made up of
understanding and friendship, with a dash of romance, and enough
passion to lend warmth and charm, and a good portion of common sense
that doesn't expect perfection": this is Nell's recipe for domestic
happiness.
Three years later. My husband and I have just returned from a week-end
visit to Mr. and Mrs. Royce: the recipe seems to be working fine; I am
trying it myself. We sat on the porch and watched them stroll out to
the beach, in the fading light of the setting sun, and then the
shadows of twilight hid them from sight. They disappeared, hand in
hand; lovers, living in perfect companionship, planning and building
as they go. May their matrimonial ship continue to sail on sunny seas,
where soft winds blow, and rest in the harbor of happiness at last.
Another triumph for Reno.....
On the occasion of our visit she showed me a package of letters tied
with white satin ribbon; "Glen's letters," she said; "he wrote me one
every day I was in Reno and they are the most beautiful letters ever
written." I read some of them and I agreed with her; I wish she would
allow me to publish them: it would make a good world better for having
read them. "Nor has earth, nor Heaven nor Hell any bars through which
love cannot burst its way toward reunion and completeness"....
And yet this queen of matrimonial bliss said to me, "I wish that all
mothers would warn their girls against ideals which are not practical.
I blame my ideals for years of utter misery; my ideal was a perfect
man."
"Someone has said: 'God does not make imperfect things,' and yet can
anyone say that he has ever seen a perfect man or a woman? I held on
to the shreds of my ideal until there was not a shred left to hang on
to; until my heart lay bruised and bleeding on the altar of dead and
gone ideals. And then wisdom came and whispered: 'You have been
looking for perfection, but there is no such thing on this earth: we
must be forbearing and forgiving: 'forgive us our debts as we forgive
our debtors.'
"With wisdom came new ideals that were practical and a new kind of
love, indulgent and forgiving, yet self-respecting; a love as strong
as the Rock of Ages. Love--a little thing--a sentiment perhaps--and
yet without it what would be left of that which we call life....
"There are emotions which make for ambition, for right living, for
honor and position, but how pitifully small and inconsequential
besides the mighty tomes which, circling the globe, comprise the
lexicon of love. Love--the symbol and sequel of birth, the solace of
death--the essence of divinity! Frozen indeed is the heart which has
never felt its glow; gross and sordid the soul which has never been
illumined by its sunshine.
"To live is to love, my friend, and to love is to suffer a little and
to be happy much."