Sinbad
Date: 2026-02-12T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Bohemianism -- Fiction; Greenwich Village (New York; N.Y.) -- Fiction

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Title: Sinbad

A romance

Author: C. Kay-Scott

Release date: February 12, 2026 [eBook #77919]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1923

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77919

Credits: Hendrik Kaiber and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SINBAD ***

Sinbad

Novels by C. Kay Scott

- Blind Mice
- Sinbad
- The Napoleons (In Preparation)
- Siren (In Preparation)

Sinbad

A Romance

by

C. Kay Scott

“Excellent men have not been wanting (to whose labour and industry I feel myself much indebted) who have written excellently in great quantity on the right manner of life, and left to men counsels full of wisdom: yet no one has determined, as far as I know, the nature and force of the emotions and what the mind can do in opposition to them for their restraint.”

Spinoza—Ethica ordine geometrico demonstrata, etc.
(Trans. W. Hall White)

New York
Thomas Seltzer
1923

Copyright, 1923, by
Thomas Seltzer, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

To
E. D. and C. W.,
Wiser than these.

“Morte perchè m’hai fatta si gran guerra?”

Canzoni—Giacomino Pugliese

Contents

Book I: “Les”

- I. Mirage

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5

- II. Eyes a Year After

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9

- III. The Ocean

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7

- IV. A Point of Time

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8

Book II: Howard

- I. The Island in the Moon

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5

- II. Mirror Maze

- 1 • 2 • 3

- III. Diluting the Needs of Man

- 1 • 2 • 3

- IV. The Sleepwalker

- 1 • 2 • 3

- V. The Tamers

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4

- VI. Webs

- 1 • 2 • 3

Book III: Algeria

- I. “The Everlasting Return”

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6

- II. Footlights!

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5

- III. Cake

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6

- IV. The Happy Ending

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5

- V. The Fear of Life

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5

Book IV: “Em”

- I. Image

- 1 • 2 • 3

- II. Mist

- 1 • 2 • 3

- III. Tie

- 1 • 2

- IV. “What Little Girls Are Made Of”

- 1 • 2

- V. Love May Go On

- 1 • 2 • 3 • 4

Dramatis Personæ

Lester Drane, a successful scientist, who trades all for romantic love.

Emily Tyler, a gifted girl, who trusts only her womanly intuition.

Howard Story, a modern man, who despises life apart from Art.

Algeria Westover, a true Bohemian, a person, no longer young, who imitates herself.

Genevieve Strang, a “new woman,” a girl with the code of a gentleman.

Other Persons and Creatures, Bankers, People, Writers, Friends, Radicals, Janitresses, Painters, Zoölogists, Waiters, Poets, Fakirs, Prostitutes, Children, Critics, Marionettes, Enemies, Artists, Ghosts, Etc.

Scene: The Metropolitan City of New York.

Time: Late Autumn, Winter, Early Spring, three years after the Great War.

Book I: “Les”

“I’m not a young man. … I had studied myself; I had had experience of myself; I knew how much I loved her, and how happy I should be. … But I had not—I feel it now—sufficiently considered her. … Did I consider that it was no merit in me, or claim in me, that I loved her, when everybody must, who knew her? … Did I consider that I took her—at her age…? I have not found it out before.”

Charles Dickens—“The Cricket on the Hearth”

Chapter I
Mirage

“I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
‘It is futile,’ I said,
‘You can never—’
‘You lie,’ he cried,
And ran on.”

Stephen Crane—“The Black Riders”

1

A low gray-green fog had crept over New York: the houses stood like boulders in a stream. Two dim figures fled from the street, ran through a hall and up the stairs.

“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, Mrs. Drane.” The fat and kind Polish janitress, with her dark, naïve eyes, smiled as she stood aside for them.

“Good evening,” Emily and Lester called back almost in a breath.

They unlocked a door and entered. Ghost-pieces of furniture with shadows perched on them, waves of city noise growling sullenly outside. Emily lighted candles. To keep out the dark.… They smiled at each other. Emily slender, green-gray eyes, chestnut hair, Celtic and quick: Lester heavy, nearly swarthy, with blue eyes, deliberate and almost noble in gesture. They removed their wraps, raced to a couch and lighted cigarettes. Silence. Emily gazed dreamily through the smoke.

“Les!”

Lester answered affectionately.

“Yes, Em.”

“Isn’t it fun living with you! What were you like when you were a little boy?”

“Oh, moony.” He did not like to talk about himself. Emily did.

She smiled seriously.

“I’ll bet you were! Aren’t things funny, Les? When I was a little girl I used to think and think. People tried to keep things from me. I wrote something bad on my slate at school once, and the teacher sent me home. I tried to be in love when I was thirteen. Then soon I wanted so badly to be popular that I was positively ill from anxiety after every dance. And afterward, suffrage work: would you believe it of me now? It was my religion for two years. You know the family all laughed at my painting. I never should have been able to shake off things. But I’m actually—oh, Les, you’ve been so good to me—” There was a catch in her voice. She snuggled close to him and held him tight.

Lester kissed her hair but did not speak. His heart was tender toward her. She’s my child … hurt.…

The fog crouched outside. The city was an enemy. Les is warmth, life. She laid her cheek to his.

“Les, do you love me?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

They sat in the silence. She felt warm and safe with him.

Strength. He knew himself. I may be a visionary, but I’m strong. Moonstruck! Dim and cool forest … spinning moon with her brood of frightened stars … hearts leap into the meshes of moonlight.…

Emily spoke.

“Let’s go to bed, Les.”

2

A clear cool evening.

Emily Tyler and Lester Drane walked vigorously down the street. They were going to dinner with friends.

“Did they say Manzinetti’s, Les?” Emily smiled at Lester. Her eyes were very steady, except when she smiled—then they smiled too.

“Um-huh.” Lester paused to light a cigarette, shading the flaming match with his hands.

The pink glow through his small fingers was pretty, Emily thought. She put her arm through his.

“Are you tired tonight?”

“Not very.” Lester was not much taller than Emily, but his head was strongly set on his body and almost massive. “Like a bishop’s,” she had once said. He did not like being asked if he were tired. He was twenty years older than Emily.

Greenwich Avenue, Eighth Street, down MacDougal, past the Square, Bleecker Street, Little Italy, shops, holes, venders’ carts, stalls, queer lights, foreign sounds—

“Do we turn to the right or left here?”

Lester laughed.

“Here we are,” he said after a moment, squeezing her arm and then releasing it.

Emily preceded him into the dingy little Italian restaurant. At a long table, dim with light, half a dozen of their friends were waiting. Emily’s vivid face brightened at their noisy welcome. Her teeth flashed. Lester smiled slowly.

“Hello, Em! Hello, Les! Em’s going to sit between me and Toby—No, Em’s got to sit by me tonight—Les, you can sit between Jen and Blanche—I’ll sit here—Now that’s not fair, Stuart. Em sat by you last time—How are you kids, anyhow?—Where’s Michael?—Well, children, what shall we eat?” Lester beckoned to a favorite waiter and the group began to consult earnestly. “Antipasti—minestrone—spaghetti—maiale con peperoni—spumoni—”

“Let’s have some red ink,” suggested Stuart Perinchief, rapping gravely on the table for attention. He was always shabbily dressed, an air of dryness and fatigue about him.

“All right! Good! Let’s! Yours is a great mind, Stuart!”

Lester whispered to the swarthy handsome young waiter who had a sweet smile and angrily brilliant eyes.

“Si, signor.” Large teacups were quickly placed before the diners and three bottles skillfully whisked under Lester’s chair.

Conversation. Lester and Emily in coming to New York had innocently looked forward to finding individuals who would comprehend and sympathize with their aspirations. Thinking of themselves as misunderstood, wounded and disheartened in a callous provincial atmosphere, they had both unconsciously made the meeting of “fellow artists” a last symbol. They had been naïvely religious in this faith. To know people who can share and inspire instead of hinder and destroy! Lester smiled now as he thought of it. A few months among the jealousies, anemia and nerves of various hostile coteries had driven him and Emily to gather about them a small circle of their own. Not great, perhaps, but here at least is a little kindness, he thought. Tonight in the obscure restaurant, warmed and confident for the moment, all were talking at once, not brilliantly or profoundly, but harmlessly. Affectionate smiles were turned to Emily. Lester felt gentle toward these people. At last food came and the meal began.

“There’s Michael!” cried Emily, waving her fork at a tall youth with the head of a poet. “Aren’t you ’shamed of yourself?”

Michael Kennedy hurried toward them. He sank into a chair beside Lester.

“Awfully sorry to be late.”

Genevieve Strang shook her enormous pendent earrings at him from across the table.

“You always are, Michael,” she said in a rich low-pitched voice, almost too perfectly modulated, her enunciation theatrically distinct. Genevieve’s manner was well-bred to the point of discomfort.

Michael blushed and laughed self-consciously as he saluted the others. His greeting to Mark Leighter, who sat nearly opposite him, beside Genevieve, was especially warm. Leighter had the cadaverous exterior of a romantic backwoodsman. He answered Michael cordially. They were both in love with the same girl, and were being very noble.

On the other side of Lester was Blanche Dixon, a plump little person whose bobbed hair spread out fan-like as she whirled toward him and whispered in his ear, giggling as she talked. Her conversation was rambling and ceaseless, but Lester smiled.

Em, at the head of the table, opposite Perinchief, was between Toby Adams and Tit Miller. Small head held high, heavy hair; her face was a pure oval, almost perfect in profile. Translucent brown eyes with greenish lights, turning with sudden fearlessness from one person to another. There was a delicate distinction to her body. She could sit harmoniously on a chair. Toby leaned near her, seemed to glue his eyes to her face, and whispered.

“You dear thing!”

She smiled frankly and kindly.

“What’s the matter with me? Is my hat on crooked?”

“I’m tasting you with my eyes,” he responded soulfully. He had a trick of looking at women that was cultivated and at the same time unconscious—a narrowing of his lids and a relaxing of the focus of vision in a moist gaze of admiration. Em was used to him.

“Now, Toby, don’t get messy,” said Genevieve, in a very British-upper-middle-class manner. Her huge earrings were an incongruous yet somehow attractive accompaniment to her small broad face. Everything in Genevieve’s appearance pretended to languor and sophistication. In this agglomeration of characteristics there was nothing to explain the steady almost naïve sincerity of her long-lashed dark blue eyes.

Em gave Adams’ arm a sisterly pat.

“Yes, keep your technique for some new girl, Toby dear.”

Tit Miller, on Em’s other side, was a dancer whose constant affectation of esthetic attitudes had given him almost grotesquely feminine motions. He invited her attention with a circular gesture of his slim hand.

“And did you hear, Em, that when I danced unannounced last week at the Settlement a girl came up to me with tears in her eyes and said, ‘Are you the great Fokine?’”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Stuart Perinchief with sudden violence from the foot of the table. “What happened then? Were you wearing anything but your—?”

“Stuart! Aren’t you dreadful!” exclaimed Blanche at his side.

“What did I say that was dreadful?” he demanded truculently.

“She knew what you might say and headed you off in time,” laughed Leighter. He was never malicious in his remarks, as he was jealous of his own sensitiveness and capacity to be hurt.

“Stuart makes me so angry!” said Tit mincingly to Em and Toby.

The large teacups had been filled and emptied several times, and the pile of bottles under Lester’s chair had grown. Michael began to hum a song. The words were not yet discernible, but all except Em and Perinchief looked worried. The tune Michael was humming was known to his friends—and also the words.

“Go on, Michael!” Stuart spoke solemnly, like a squire in his cups.

“Now, Stuart,” protested Genevieve.

Blanche giggled hysterically.

“Let Michael sing, Jen,” said Emily, her eyes sparkling wickedly.

Genevieve was firm.

“Why, Em, you know what he will—”

The conversation again became vague to Lester. He and Emily had many acquaintances, but these were their friends. He was still studying them. The hurly-burly of New York, its shadowy, grotesque, turgid, “artistic” atmosphere, had placed upon him and Em necessity for human contact. These chums had floated to them, clung to them. Blind in their search for release? Waifs from the Middle West and South huddling together in a city and drinking prohibition wine from teacups to get laughter. Old virtues with new morals, he thought. Difference in manners … very human and pathetic … they adore Em.…

Les looked up. A tall hawk-faced young man, who had been eating alone at a table beyond, was passing on his way out. He smiled at Mark Leighter, who half rose and extended his hand.

“I want you to meet my friends,” said Mark in a persuasive tone. “Miss Tyler, this is Howard Story—the etcher.”

Em’s constant gaze wavered a little as she glanced up into Story’s thin keen face. The other introductions were made, and with an easy gesture he drew a chair from another table and seated himself between Tit and Em. There was a soft color in her cheeks. She now met Howard’s greenish-brown eyes with her usual steadfast look. At the advent of a stranger a slight constraint fell upon the intimate circle.

“Hooray!” shouted Michael incontinently.

Howard Story turned to him composedly.

“We’re tryin’ to abandon ourselves to the little we are,” hiccoughed Stuart.

Howard smiled. Em noticed his hard chiseled mouth. She admitted no faults in her friends. Her head was held a trifle higher.

“Don’t mind us, Mr. Story,” explained Genevieve haughtily. “We’re only a little—you know.”

Howard glanced at Em’s defiant head. He noted the brassy highlights in her autumn-leaf brown hair, the delicacy of her face, the sureness of her manner. He thought with irritation of what he had seen and heard of her pictures. Her exceedingly feminine appearance disconcerted him and stimulated his curiosity. He glided skillfully into the spirit of the moment.

“Couldn’t we have some more wine?” he suggested pleasantly, beckoning to the waiter as he spoke.

3

The laughter and chatter went round the table once more. Stuart and Michael devoted themselves especially to the additional wine, and thenceforth beamed on Howard as an initiate.

“What do your friends do?” asked Howard genially. He addressed Mark Leighter, but Tit replied.

“Why, Emily and Mr. Leighter—”

“Of course I know Miss Tyler’s work, and Mark’s stuff.”

“Well, you see.” Tit made an eurythmic gesture. “Mr. Perinchief writes under a pseudonym, Amos Boyd—”

“Oh, yes,” said Howard, concealing his boredom.

“And Toby is a research chemist, in his spare moments. Miss Strang writes and draws and—things. And Michael does poems and reviews, and Blanche—well, she’s a nice child. Of course I—”

“What are you, Mr. Drane?”

“Bank clerk,” said Lester. His clean-shaven cheeks and chin, with blue shadows, and his deep-set eyes seemed part of his quietness. He felt injured for his friends, in having them cruelly sorted out by what they had done. This man Story is a Greenwich Village esthete. Recognizes only people to fear … worse than the bourgeois crowd.…

Howard turned to Em. There was subtle respect in his voice and mien.

“Miss Tyler, it’s a real pleasure and—”

Blanche, at Lester’s side, giggled, and he lost the rest of the words. He did see the interest in Em’s eyes. Howard had experienced intense artistic gratification in Em’s appearance; now he felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sound of her light-timbred vibrant contralto voice. He exerted himself to be his best.

Genevieve whispered to Mark.

“Your friend Mr. Story exudes charm all over the place.”

The conversation gradually dwindled to a duet between Howard and Em, and finally to a monologue by Howard. Les caught only some of the phrases.

“Cezanne—the human stereoscope—abolished sculpture—impressionists—prism convicts—Gauguin was the Pierre Loti of painters—emotional wall-paper—Degas—forerunner of posters—the ancestor of C. D. Gibson—”

Em laughed gleefully. There was admiration in her eyes. Howard knew he was being brilliant.

“El Greco—the Delsarte skeleton man—Matisse first saw the beauty of fetuses—vers librist of painting—baa, baa, baa, baa, baa, baa—” Les could not distinguish the words.

“What was that, Howard?” In Mark’s tone was a proprietary elation over the effect his friend was producing.

“I was saying that these damned futurists are painters of orations.”

Em’s usually mournful eyes were shining, her lips parted. Howard stole a quick glance at her and hurried on.

“Synchromists—daubers with the heart-burn—Kandinsky, menstruates in paint—neo-futurism is only—” The monologue across the table became indistinct to Les again.

There were signs of restiveness. Stuart and Michael were nodding drowsily. Les looked over to Genevieve. Loyal jealousy was written on her face. He tried to be detached. Howard Story was the type of Bohemian artist he detested. False art … no human values … surfaces … intellectual snobbishness.… Les would not acknowledge a male apprehensiveness.

Em sensed the pitch of the scene and, glancing hastily at Les, rose to go. Howard sprang to assist her with her coat. A spot of color was in each cheek and his sharp aquiline face was almost attractive. The others rose, assumed their wraps, and the party filed out. Howard walked with Les, Em and Genevieve together. The rest followed, Stuart and Michael, with locked arms and uncertain step, bringing up the rear.

4

As the procession reached the corner Howard asked:

“Which way are you people going? How about walking through the Square?” He slightly straightened his long stooping body and looked at Em as he spoke. He had observed the beautiful manner of her walk and carriage.

“I suppose we’re going to our respective homes,” replied Genevieve icily. She glanced furtively at Stuart. She was going to stay by Em. Her tone was hostile for Les’s sake.

“I’m going this way,” said Blanche volubly. “You know, Les, John said to me, ‘If you’ll come down tonight,’ and I said, ‘What! down to your rooms—’” She rattled on serenely while the others consulted.

Toby looked at Em miserably.

“I have a date. I must hurry off.” He pointed in the direction Blanche had indicated. He was in the clutches of a new love affair.

“Serves you right!” whispered Em viciously. There was irrelevant elation in her voice.

Howard stood smiling.

“I’m going to take Stuart and Michael home and put them to bed,” announced Mark benevolently.

Genevieve glanced gratefully at him. Now she felt free.

“I should love to take a stroll.” Tit Miller made a graceful gesture with his arm as he spoke.

Howard glanced at him coldly.

Eagerness sat on Em. Les and Genevieve agreed politely, and the quintet moved down the street. The two girls fell behind again and the three men walked together. Les was combatively silent.

“I feel like dancing up Fifth Avenue!” announced Tit. His thick glasses gave him almost an appearance of blindness, but his tall girlish body was a nearly perfect object.

Howard turned ostentatiously to Les. Behind them Emily and Genevieve, arms about each other’s waists, were talking earnestly.

“Stuart is so discouraged,” said Genevieve. “His literary broker is always wanting him to cut out the good parts and tack happy endings to his stories.” She was cunningly trying to bring Em back to relations that were permanent.

Em was loyal interest at once.

“What Stuart should do is to write the things he wants to,” she declared decidedly.

“Bread and butter.” Genevieve sighed and her piquant little face looked older. “I wish I could—I’m glad he can get drunk occasionally, anyway.”

Em hugged her friend impulsively. Genevieve was the only woman she really trusted. Genevieve sighed with mingled hope and indecision. She was anxious about Stuart, too, but Em’s affection was assuring.

“Stuart’s a dear, Jen. And Les is sweet, and I wish I could—We both wish—don’t we?”

Faithful Genevieve was content. She could leave.

“I must go back,” she whispered.

“Please don’t, Jen.”

“I’ll see you soon. Hug Les for me.” Genevieve kissed Em and slipped away in the darkness.

Em hurried forward.

“Where’s Jen?” asked Les.

“She had to go,” said Em soberly.

Without comment Howard stepped back beside her while Les and Tit walked on before them, Tit talking vivaciously. When Howard left them he shook hands with Les and Em.

“It’s been an event to have met you,” he said, ignoring Tit. “I’m going to be guilty of a party Thursday night, at Algeria Westover’s studio. She’s in Europe, but her rooms are bigger than mine. I’d love to have you both come. You know the place, same building Mark lives in, next floor above.”

Genevieve had done all she dared. The impression she had striven for still lived. But Em existed by moments. Howard was waiting solicitously. She met his greenish-brown eyes happily.

“Thank you.”

Howard smiled again.

“Good-night.” He started away.

“I’m going your way. I’ll walk along,” called Tit, following him.

5

Em and Les went slowly toward home.

“I wish the boys wouldn’t drink so much,” she mused aloud. “But he’s interesting, isn’t he?”

“Who? Tit?” asked Les.

Em smiled.

“I’ve seen his etchings at the Contemporary Society’s.”

Les did not answer. I wonder.…

“New York seems empty without Carl,” he said after a pause. Carl had been his one intimate.

“Our friends are a relief, aren’t they? Don’t you think they’re sweet nuts?” Em’s voice was affectionate. “Don’t you love ’em, Les?”

“At least they don’t spout shop every minute.”

“Well, they’re ours, anyway.” Emily hummed a little tune as she walked brightly at his side, her hand holding his tightly, within his overcoat pocket. “Mark’s friend is much more like us than like most of the crazy freaks we’ve run into.”

Les released her hand and fumbled for his keys.

“You seem impressed.” Nothing innate … how can she … feeling through others … an instrument.…

Em followed him upstairs. He struck a match. Suddenly she blew it out and threw her arms about his neck.

“Oh, Les, Les, let’s never allow anything to come between us!”

He felt her tears on his cheek in the darkness. He was afraid. She is seeking. No joy … love is not enough … forever alone … wind on my face like a loved hand … darkened sea … the stars far off.…

Chapter II
Eyes a Year After

“The sexes deceive themselves about each other: the reason is that in reality they honor and love only themselves (or their own ideal, to express it more agreeably). Thus man wishes woman to be peaceable: but in fact woman is essentially unpeaceable.”

Friedrich Nietzsche—“Beyond Good and Evil”
(Trans. Helen Zimmern)

1

Yellow shriveled leaves fluttering through the red light of the slanting autumn sun.

Lester Drane always walked rapidly with body somewhat bent forward. His shoulders were more ape-like than bowed. He was very strong. He crossed the untidy square and turned down a little side street. Several small Italian children were playing near the steps of the house where he lived. His dark skin and thick brows seemed to make him one of them. The leader of the games, a ten-year-old girl with budding bosom, stumbled against him as he paused to take a bunch of keys from his pocket. She glanced up, a look of instinctive fear in her moist startled eyes. He smiled down at her. She paid him no further attention, and resumed her shouting sway over her playmates.

Lester ran quickly up the old stairs.

As he entered the living-room he whistled, one note rising sharply after the other, an old signal between him and Emily. Then his heart sank at the silence and the darkened windows. Three months before she had attempted suicide. Death as a playmate.… None of their friends believed such things.

“Em!”

The habitual droop at the corners of his rather small straight mouth was emphasized. But he knew she was there.

He called again.

“Em!”

2

Em lay on the tobacco-brown rug in the bedroom, a pale blot in the darkness. He knelt beside her.

“What is it, darling?” Too-heavy brows—smudges on her dim face.

“Oh, Les—” she sobbed.

To Em all things were of equal importance if they were equally near to her. It made her an artist. It made him wary. Em had cried daily for four days. Even before that, ever since the meeting with Howard Story in the restaurant, she had been distraught. Damn that night at Manzinetti’s when Mark introduced him!

Four days. Howard Story’s party at Algeria Westover’s studio. Four days ago. Why did I go? Algeria Westover in Europe. Howard in her studio. Lovers.… There flashed on Les the picture of Howard and Em at the party. Lazy blue smoke in the room. Candles … dull green and yellow mist … broad couch … Howard enthroned … giant heron on a nest.… More talk. El Greco, Cezanne, Hodler—Em hanging on Howard’s words … defenseless eyes.…

“What is it, dear?” Les asked again gently.

“Oh, I want to die—” she wailed with sudden harshness.

The first time he heard this cry a year ago he had thought it only words. Now. Belief always comes. My love of life has separated us forever.…

“Tell me what it is, Em.”

She raised herself on one long narrow hand. The beautiful curve to her thin lips gone. Her face close to mine.…

“You know, Les.”

His heavy eyelids twitched. Les feared Em’s concrete fleshliness because he knew it could ignore his idea of himself. He would not bear that anyone but himself should excite her. What he feared had come.

She rose to her knees and seized him fiercely in her arms.

“Les, do you hate living with me? Why didn’t you let me kill myself a year ago?”

Her tears burned his cheek. He shut his eyes. Eyelids of day closing … wide mantle of the moonlight … nothing clear or simple … sick joy … people like shadows … formless suffering … dogged by death … Sophocles.… Em is right. More Jean Jacques Rousseau. Agh! Lights on still water … golden lilies with shining stems.…

3

They had talked for an hour. They were tired. A candle burned on the mantel. Both were standing now. Les began to walk slowly to and fro. His small rigid hands clenched. His large brow wrinkled, eyes almost colorless in thought.

His voice trembled slightly.

“I am not possessive, Em. You can see whom you wish—do what you wish.”

“Oh, you intellectualize me so!” she cried. “It’s more subtle than that. A woman—Can’t you see? Oh no, you can’t—you can’t. You hate me—you hate me—” She hid her face in her hands.

“Don’t, Em. Please, Em.” No matter how subtle the reason is, the means of hurting me is just as horrible.

She heard nothing he said. She only felt that he was repudiating her.

“You hate me—” she moaned. The slender fingers with widened tips were trembling. Em gave an impression of delicacy and lack of physical stamina.

Lester could be only quietly eloquent.

“We cannot talk. You hear only those words of mine that serve your instinctive purpose to shatter our relation. You resent our relation because I built it and not you. You have always failed it and therefore you wish it away. It is not I who hate you, Em. You hate me when I fight for our life together. If you had made it you would defend it with your life blood. You would adore me because I was subject to what you had made. But now you would destroy with secret joy because you know the death-blow would be yours and not mine.” Stupid talk.… I can’t. Professor. Schoolmaster … the god of pity.…

His face was lined and his usually ruddy skin was gray. He always feared her response, fought for fixity in her desire.

Em looked up. She made a little movement toward him and then retreated. The tense droop to his mouth gave slightly as the muscles of his cheeks relaxed. She stared into his eyes with a tragic intensity that hypnotized herself. He returned her gaze unwillingly because he did not wish to lower his eyes. Irrelevantly he noted the faint down on her lip and cheeks.

Em’s heart expanded in a sudden and uncontrollable wave of compassion.

“Oh, my darling—” She convulsively strained his head to her breast. “My poor boy. Oh, Les, I love you—”

Strife made her amorous: peace made him amorous. His breath came quickly. Em, can’t you see, can’t you see you are killing me? Dumb. Why can’t I say what I feel? She believes in me only when I am weak.—Then she can pity me. I can’t think any more … a body that breaks … swinging on the bough of life … why.…

The tears were running down her cheeks.

“Sweetheart—” she whispered.

They stood with their arms about each other.

“Em, I want you to see him whenever you care to.”

“But precious, I don’t want to see him—oh, I’ve hurt you—”

4

Lester was coming home again, this time early.

His clean-cut body, always swaying forward, moved neatly through the crowds. Always between me and mine. Sex. He mused as he walked. Love without life. Childhood … shadows on the wall like great bats … wicked children … little Hilda … drawers unbuttoned … music of tiny bells … millions of flowers bursting into bloom … white birds with shining wings … women … lustful kisses … Em. Her weakness cutting at the roots of life.

As he ascended the dingy stairs he knew Howard would be there.

Em was pouring tea.

“I asked Howard to come. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Em hated evasions. She hadn’t a particle of malice and she hadn’t a particle of mercy. What she did have was a straightforwardness that slew people.

Talk between them. Howard’s greenish eyes turned on Les.

“You’re a realist, Mr. Drane. A man of your scientific training appraises us intellectually with no emotional sharing.”

Sunshine was streaming through a window in the Dranes’ living-room. It threw saffron highlights on half of Lester’s large, almost four-square nose, and on one heavily lobed ear.

“I suppose so.” His voice was cool and kind.

Em’s directness was like a sword-thrust.

“Bosh! Les is the sweetest thing you ever saw, Mr. Story. You’re encouraging him in being a clam, that’s all.” Her Scotch-hazel eyes flashed and the reddish glow warmed in her thick brown hair as she moved nervously. They’re all alike—mythmakers, she thought. Lester hated her impatience of moderation. Even when they were at peace, he feared.

Howard crossed his long legs and bent over the table. He gazed like a huge bird at one of Em’s unfinished drawings.

“No, I’m not a mythmaker, Mrs. Drane.” Em started visibly and pulled her sagging green smock further up on her shoulder. “I knew you were thinking that,” Howard continued, smiling. “We artists—”

Their voices grew vague to Les. Always seeking, he thought as Em and Howard rattled on. Understands her soul. Every new person she meets is to give her something I cannot.

“I appeal to Drane.”

Howard’s voice came to Les as from a perfect stillness.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lester awkwardly.

Howard was sure Lester disliked him. Em felt that she was being reprimanded.

“These expressionists,” Howard turned formally to Lester. “Don’t you think they are trying to get the exact opposite of impressionism?”

“I’m not sure that—” Les’s deep blue eyes sought Em’s.

Howard interrupted.

“Well, at any rate—”

The conversation flowed on again without Lester. Em makes me helpless before my enemies. He feared flux, that which alone she trusted. He was always fighting for their sanity. She would throw all into the dust in a second. Pity has cut me off from her forever.… Howard was rising. His gaunt length towered in the dim room.

He held out a bony hand.

“Well, Drane, I suppose we’ve bored you with this shop.”

“I’m not much of a conversationalist. You’ll have to get used to me.”

“Emily tells me you write. I’d love to see some of your stuff some time.”

“Thank you.” The man’s like a marionette—sodomy with art!

Em’s eyes were dark and inscrutable.

“I’ll show you down.” She seized a candle and lighted it. “The stairs are frightfully dark.”

“Thanks. Aren’t you nice?” smiled Howard. “Good-night, Drane.”

“Good-night.”

Dark. Darkness falling like rain … calm and peace … vain like acted scenes … dead and wordless pain … lips white in pain … shadow like a shapeless stain … the terror by night … glowing sparks of stars vanished altogether … sprinkle tears of pity over the dumb hearts of the earth.…

5

Genevieve called Les on the telephone. He seized the receiver briskly. Hair well trimmed, clothes not new but carefully brushed, perfect linen, motions definite. He showed a confidence he never felt.

“Empire State Trust Company,” he said curtly.

“Hello, Les.”

“Hello,” he replied in another tone. Before him lay an orderly pile of papers. Brazier Smelting Company Incorporated Twenty-Year Sinking-Fund Convertible Gold Notes—Slater County Electric Transit Corporation First Equipment Mortgage—It seemed impossible that any of his life could come to him through the desk telephone in his hands.

“Are you and Em going to Manzinetti’s tonight?”

“No.” His end of the conversation must sound like a business call.

“Well, we’re not either. Come over to our place and I’ll cook dinner. Michael will be here.”

“All right, thank you.”

Les’s assistant, young Babbitt, was listening.

“Was that the Potter-Wright people?”

“No,” said Les.

“Their manager called me three times yesterday. Worried as hell. We won’t renew. They’ll get theirs all right all right.” Young Babbitt licked his lips.

6

Em was asleep when Les reached Jane Street.

“I was dreaming.” Her eyes were soft.

“What did you dream?”

Em’s eyes changed but she did not answer. When she arose and put on her hat and coat it was as though she were still in the dream.

On the street they were silent. They reached the narrow old-fashioned red brick house where Genevieve and Stuart lived, and Stuart himself opened the door to their ring. His small pale mouth was hard and in his eyes lay a look of unacknowledged frustration. Genevieve came out of the little kitchen. A large apron protected her severe dull-purple gown.

“Where did you get your new earrings?” asked Em listlessly.

“Eve sent them to me from Moscow. They’re from Samarkand.”

“What color of hair is she wearing now?” asked Les mischievously. Poor old joke! I wonder how I’ll get through this evening.

Genevieve made a face at him. She wouldn’t argue about her friend Eve. She wanted things to be gay to help Les and Em.

“We won’t wait for Michael. You children sit down and I’ll bring on the nourishment.” Her rich voice was the same, but at home she dropped her undue precision of speech.

“Good idea.” Les was almost dumb with pain. His pride made him speak naturally.

“Stuart’s father wired yesterday that he was coming down for the night, and so I had to go over and sleep with Blanche,” said Genevieve crossly as they began their soup. “And my mother is coming Wednesday, so Stuart will have to go over to Michael’s. One wonders when they’ll meet, or one of them open a bureau drawer. Sweet land of liberty—it’s as bad as being married!”

“Worse,” remarked Les.

“Well, I’m not, anyway, and nobody can alter that.”

“Nobody but yourself.”

“And I won’t be, either.”

A ring. Stuart opened the door and Michael hurried in.

“Hello, kids. So sorry to be late.” He seated himself hastily and pulled a large bottle from his coat pocket. Michael’s brown eyes gazed at people with a passionate yet abstracted intensity. It was only when one noted his thin wide mouth that he failed to resemble the portraits of Lord Byron.

“As it occurs so seldom, you’re forgiven this once,” said Genevieve ironically.

Michael flushed.

“I’ve brought some home-made Malaga as a peace offering,” he replied humbly.

Emily said hardly a word. Stuart was engulfed in gloom. Lester seldom talked much, and the meal was enlivened only by affectionate banter between Genevieve and Michael. It was not the success of her dinner that caused Genevieve’s anxious look. She glanced stealthily at Em from time to time. After he had eaten, Stuart promptly went to sleep on the couch. He had had a story rejected, and Genevieve was thinking of him, too. Michael called Em over to one side of the room to read her a poem, the writing of which had made him late to dinner. He laughingly refused to let the others hear it.

“You’re worried, Les,” said Genevieve sympathetically.

There was a reserved but intricate emotional understanding between the two. Her intellectual generalizations were usually crude and always on the safe side of pessimism, but she was capable of intense personal loyalty and her instinctive feeling was basically fine.

Les spoke in a low tone.

“I wish Carl were here.”

“Is it anything about you and Em?” she asked softly. She already knew.

“It probably is.” His face was immobile. Genevieve put her hand on his and her eyes were moist. “You’re good, Jen,” he said.

They were both embarrassed by their emotion. Les lowered his eyes and reached uneasily for his pipe. Genevieve moved across the room to a chair beside Emily. Michael, when he saw that Les was alone, rose, lighted a pipe also, and walked over and stood by the mantel. He stared down at his friend.

“What’s the matter with Em tonight, Les?” he asked in a low tone.

“Nothing,” replied Les impatiently. Kindness. They pity me. I shall go … healing in the spaces of the world.…

Michael smoked in silence, a kind look in his remote eyes.

“What is it, dear?” Genevieve, screening herself from the others, kissed Em.

“Oh, Jen, I don’t know.” Em tried to conceal her agitation. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her lips quivered.

Genevieve stared at her sympathetically but a little severely.

“Les is a darling,” she said slowly at last.

“Oh, Jen, I know it.” Em gave a tiny sob.

“Is it—someone—when we all believed so in the relation between you and Les?”

Em was mute, condemned but rebellious. They don’t know. Never anything to touch. Something in me hates and fears the idealism Les loves. I want to be touched—I want it to be me. Just being an artist isn’t enough. I’m weak. I know it.

Les rose to go. “Hadn’t we better leave these people their sleep?” He could not prolong the evening. His face was gaunt. Genevieve, turning from Emily, made no comment. Stuart was roused from the couch, where he had been reposing with privileged rudeness, and shook hands with affectionate depression. Michael smiled evasively. They realized something was wrong, and their powerless sympathy left them constrained.

“Good-by.”

Em and Les went down the stairs. They walked a little apart, Em glancing at him now and then with a furtive and apologetic anxiousness. She felt helpless.

7

Lester had been a university professor and dean, a naturalist of international fame, organizer of a dozen scientific expeditions. Tropical lands, great laboratories, students flocking, presidencies of learned societies, degrees, dinners, speeches—We have with us tonight … researches that have shed undying luster.…

Undying poppycock. He had given up everything when he met Em. Scandal. Em, from a small Southern town, had run away with him. Distinguished colleagues cut him. He knew that to those who needed less than he did the absoluteness of his gesture seemed false. Artist. Write. Having Em, he wanted to write. He had always wanted to write. Grandiose. He still had verses written when he was twelve years old. His Ballad of the Mayden Bride written at sixteen. Les could repeat it to himself to this day.

Come lithe ye then kind gentlemen
And harken to this verse,
So alle may learn that love wyl spurn
And break cruell Dethe’s curse.

A noble knyght wyth armour bright
There rode from his demesne,
Who kist wyth pride his ladye bride
That ne’er his wyf had been.

Proud to bee sent on quest urgént
Yf on his marriage morn,
He rode away the somer’s day
From his dere love forlorn.

Who to him sayde, “Ye have I wed
And even shulde I dey
E’er me ye wive, I shal yet lyeve
To kiss ye tenderly.”

How his boy’s heart had thrilled to have written it!

Ten years were fled ere returnéd
Alle gaunt and pale the knyght:
His errand made, his steed a jade,
At the postern he did lyght.

He walked silént and then sone went
Into the busy court
Wher his folk stode talking not loud,
And the children laughed at sport.

When he cam there they eche did stare
And fell round and kneeléd;
“Dere Lorde,” they cried, “our Ladye died
Last even in her bed.”

Have I really outgrown this?

He sayde no reply and went straightly
Up to the chamber above
Thyder was layd his wyf yet a maide
Whom his bolde herte did love.

He kneeled to rest his hede on her breast
And clipt her his arms around:
Wyth gentle syghs she oped her ees
As coming fro a swound.

Her pale cheek did flush wyth love’s swete blush
And she kist his lips anoon;
Then he lift his hede for she was agayne dead,
And he rose and stode allone.

Les decided that he liked it, even yet.

He past the court through and his people trewe,
And no wordis did they saye
Till that the knyght in the fading lyght
Rode once agayne away.

In India, Africa and the islands of the sea he had tried to write. Un Byron de nos jours. When he was through with it, it all seemed flaunting. There was something—so he discovered—he hadn’t yet realized about himself. Sonnets on Fate—

O impotent Philosophy! What sage
Hath e’er devis’d a meaning of our birth
Or death—the reason of the stars, this earth?
As well the gibber of some ancient mage
As the blind wilderings of mine own age,
Or God, created in man’s piteous dearth
Of alternate, to build with hideous mirth
The universe to be our mad souls’ cage.

Sophist avaunt! What good to know or learn
These meaningless inventions of the mind?
O fool, what boots to bind thy soul ’neath stern
Discipline’s rod, who hastest as the wind
From nothing—hurl’d through fancied life and fate—
To endless nothing of the ultimate?

Cosmic. Bah! He smiled at this, but his bitterness even now made such a gesture. Sometimes he seemed to himself the only actuality in an unreal world. To write this! To write. The itch was still in him. More than ever, perhaps. But he knew better now. Novels. He had written and burned half a dozen. Had shown them to no one, had learned from his despair. He must snare significances more subtly. Grasp the shimmering inexpressibilities.…

He saw in each failure how he might say the hitherto impossible. He felt he had at last come to strive for the evocation of the simple. It was a deep personal necessity for him to articulate himself. None of them understood—never would. He was an artist. He knew it. The last novel at least—half-finished and now in his desk—showed it: in it he longed to imprison forever the poignance of trifles, to record for all time for beautiful souls the grave mystery of the body. Alone, he had never deeply distrusted himself; but Em’s hungry specificness made him doubt his pale wide solutions of inner tragedies. He poured senseless oblation before her momentary color, but he was afraid of it. The logic of the ideal: the fallacy of the flesh! Where was the way? He only knew he must go on.

His name was not Lester Drane. Em’s name was not Emily Tyler. Also they were not married, though all but their most trusted friends supposed they were. She loved passion for itself. He had destroyed his background at one blow. To be free. To write. Chimera. No, it was not fantastic. He believed. He had known that he must feel the inner sympathy of another artist. Emily was an artist. Someone in Europe once said she was and so America had found it out. She was one who did the things other women threaten to do. Her hair was glorious.

They had lived together now for nearly two years. It had taken a year of the time for the scandal to blow away and leave them in peace. They were in Greenwich Village. Why they could not tell. Living among the blackmailers of art, he thought. He longed for the wilderness. Sentimentalists. At first they had accepted the extravaganza. It was new. Babes in the wood. Em had been smothered in a traditional home. They needed background. Untrammeled! The lion’s den. Les ceased to think.

8

Les deceived himself, but not about Em’s interest in Howard.

It was no ordinary affair. Em had had such. Howard was a symbol—because he seemed to have no reservations. Hawk face with pleading lips. Color of temperament … red beads … green and yellow … a string of beads without the string.… Latin.… Preserving his emotional integrity by capitulation. Em believed in no feeling that did not go out in emotional language.

Howard was fluid—not fixed with shame.

Les knew that if he could weep Em would be all tenderness to him, too. I cannot.… I cannot.… She resented that in him which she didn’t touch—but he felt she shouldn’t want to touch it. Thus she kept hurting herself to hurt him. Intimacy without tenderness. What does she want now? Never forgiving strength … she strong and I weak … repelled by my subjection.… Em, Em, Em … not perfect but what all other women lack she has … they seem dingy … never passive in anything … piercing like a white flame … body like … love me.…

He slept badly. Too much thinking.

Tonight Em sat up in bed, her slim body tightening, her small breasts rising beautifully behind the yoke of her nightgown.

“Les, why don’t you like Howard Story?”

Talk till morning. It was trying to grasp smoke. At first they had been able, when things came between, to release themselves by talking. Em still could strike through the mist with ruthless words. Drawing fire to warm.… But he had not been able to bear it. He had taken refuge.

“You won’t face the simple fact that you’re a jealous husband, Les.”

Les sprang out of bed and opened the window. His heavy features were quiet. The arclight guilty before the dawn … rose and pearl … floating on the blue pool of heaven … peace like warm snow … street gleaming like a reptile … night soaring … dead of light.…

Em looked at him scornfully.

“My God, but you’re romantic, Les!”

9

Les was romantic—no doubt of it.

He was walking in the park but he did not see the park.

Sand … drifted and white to the horizon … camels rocking like ships … sun of blood plunging over night’s verge … mother-of-pearl fields … sleep.…

Snaky caravans winding … groined forests … church … jungles with leaden leaves … snuffling beasts in the dark … thatched kraals … haystacks … naked women … bronze statues … drums in the moonlight, tum, tum, tum, tum, tum, tum.…

Palms beckoning in the still night … coral beach … faint white sickle of shore … moon like the Holy Ghost … hidden eyes … breasts like eyes in the pale radiance … flower in her hair.…

Peons … lean faces in Rembrandt shadows … knife flash … life blood spurting down … fireflies worn for jewels … lace bobbins, tap, tap … lips on her jonquil skin … stars … a thousand golden throats singing … Algol sang loudest of all.…

Crashing colors in a blinding glare … wise giants crawling … red and gold howdahs on their backs … tinkle, tinkle, tinkle … smells … thousands of smells … rubies … bracelets rubies … rubies set in beautiful noses … maddening bodies hidden under swaying cloth … dust … gray dust … blue dust … soldiers … pah!…

He rarely spoke of fifteen years spent at the ends of the earth.

Chapter III
The Ocean

“The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing—
Away!”

Percy Bysshe Shelley—“The Fugitives”

1

The rain dripped softly and the paved streets were filled with dim reflections. Window-panes were streaked with tiny rivulets. People bent under umbrellas. Early-lit street-lamps glowed nebulously. Long ribbons of light glistened on the sidewalks. As usual Les walked quickly. His shapely feet were sure. He was thinking of the country. Next best thing to wilderness. Rain falling steadily in starless darkness … flooded roads … dim fields … woods of bare trees … branches strewn with unseen pearls.…

Flotsam in New York, knowing so few. Les was statistician for the Empire State Trust Company. Big granite pile, mahogany desks and well-groomed bank officers. He compiled figures. Still biometrical! His epoch-making statistical work in zoölogy had fitted him for his tasteless job. Figures, millions, billions, columns on long sheets, funded debts, bonds, gold certificates, sinking funds, hell!

He had free-lanced until a year ago.

His novel. No time. Articles on Gauguin, unanimistes, neuroromantik, book reviews. Waiting in outer rooms, casual office girls, polite and bored editors, attic, poor food.

He and Em had been through this together. Good artists seldom make good money. Em’s earnings were not enough for herself. Empire State Trust Company, comfortable studio in Jane Street now, novel still half-finished.

When Les reached Jane Street he found a note.

“Gone to have tea at Howard’s rooms. Back at seven. Em.”

Les lay on the bed in the twilight, listening to the rain. His long hair that had been brushed back from his brow was tumbled. Nameless dread lay with him. Why had sex tricked him through his art? The agony of creation that had gone astray in imaginative laboratory experiments! They are classical now.… Associates astounded and resentful. Les smiled in his fear. Science is as staggered as religion by personality.

Obscure … forgotten.… Earning bread in the Empire State Trust Company! His old colleagues were probably busy damning young enthusiasts who had the temerity to doubt data that his forgotten researches tentatively suggested—data he had once regarded as hints of perhaps significant things beyond. The more he had become dissatisfied with discovery the more he had inspired others. Before he left it all he had actually hugged a perverse pride in presenting plodding minds with flashes, outlines, prophecies—that worked out to their credit alone. Jean Jacques again, no doubt. It was fitting that he should end up as a Greenwich Village dabbler!

His novel. The sweat stood on his forehead. He had thought of love as a light. Star-gazer. Les was really thinking of the stars. Angels sow stars … wreaths of stars … orbits hung round the neck of night … stars in the hair of night … starlit windows of the house of God.…

“Your vanity refuses to let you face what love is,” he said aloud.

2

Em was in Howard’s flat. Hyper-restrained color-scheme, Matisse, two priceless Japanese prints. Howard was pouring tea this time.

Talk at first esthetic. Cubists and futurists. Picasso. Marinetti. München and Düsseldorf. Kandinsky—musical color. Expressionismus—Marc and Chagall, Kokoscha and Meidner, Max Pechstein’s child paintings. Music—Arnold Schönberg, Satie. Dada—Gertrude Stein, Tristan Tsara, free association. Blah!

“Drane is an anachronism—a real man,” spurted Howard suddenly, his thin face rather cruel. “What sort of stuff does he write?”

“Oh, bitter.” Em’s voice was at once antagonistic.

“Confessions, I suppose.”

“It’s damned good realism, I think.” She frowned and fumbled for a cigarette.

Howard pointed to a small dark-red tabourette.

“Smokes at your elbow,” he said. When she had lighted the cigarette he continued in the same tone, “I suppose that Ryder is really our only great—”

“Don’t be silly,” she snapped.

Howard smiled.

Em was long-waisted, so that her clothes hung well. Her manner of sitting revealed emphasis and grace without restraint. Her cheeks showed slight color when she was excited. She had slender ankles and feet. Now she tucked her fine legs under her in the wide, soft chair. When she was comfortable Howard spoke again.

“He hates psychical cruelty as I do physical. We’re different kinds of cowards.”

Em rested her chin in her hand.

“Les isn’t a coward,” she said.

“He should have someone like himself. You’ve no gentleness in you. You have abandon, but there’s no friendliness in your love. He’s unhappy.” Howard’s artistic vanity often made him say things he grudged.

Em winced.

“It’s my fault.”

“You’re a spiritual dadaist. One thing’s as valuable as another. That’s why you resent sacrifice.”

“But he’s so—so—” Her eyes hardened and misted faintly with tears.

“Pooh! His repugnance to over-emotion is dictated by his sense of personal harmony. He’s preëminently moral—you’re not. You’re the wrong one for him, that’s all. Why not be sensible?”

Em loved edge. She was thankful for being hurt. I shouldn’t have to eat myself at any rate, she thought. People were afraid to flatter Em crudely: she was too great in their eyes. So she felt that none desired her as other women are desired. She was looking for anybody. Howard dared to aspire. He rose and bent over her.

“I suppose you don’t kiss,” he said.

She closed her eyes. Les would have thought it ugly. When Howard released her she got up and took her hat and gloves. She felt vaguely unhappy, but pleased with her unhappiness. Howard didn’t idolize her.

As they parted at the door he said:

“I’m going to have another party—here—Thursday night. Hope you’ll both come.”

3

Accident. Howard was at the Piedmont galleries. Em came in. There were few people in the long room. He smiled and came toward her.

“Hello! Came to look at your blue-green thing.”

“So did I,” laughed Em.

They both squinted at her picture. The glow from the skylight over them made Em’s face under her small soft hat look haggard and a little pathetic in its animation.

“My dry-points are at the Contemporary Society’s barn.” Howard never omitted to mention his etchings.

“Let’s go and see them, too,” she proposed, still laughing.

“Let’s.”

They left together. The air was like wine, the sunlight old gold, sumptuous limousines passing them, down the broad, clean avenue.

“Why don’t I ever see any of your etchings at your place?”

“Keep ’em out of sight. Public’s bad enough, let alone one’s friends. Nice to see you so soon again.”

There was blankness in her relief. Her delicate oval face flushed. Sensitive gestures, voice softly musical. Em conveyed a wistful gallant boy-girl quality. She spoke quickly.

“I’m glad.”

“Want to see you all the time.” She did not answer. His intensifying determination pleased her and frightened her. It forced her to admit clearly something which made her fidelity to Les a lie. “Going to, too.” Howard’s nostrils widened cruelly. Unadmittedly he wanted her because he envied her work. Em relaxed in the feeling that she was acting inevitably from her inner nature. She breathed deeply. Howard’s voice reached her. “I’ve got to have what I want.” Doubts contended in her. Les could keep me if he tried. I’m not to blame for my qualities. He doesn’t want my honesty. He has his ideal. She was glowing with the power of a new enterprise. “Do you know that, Em?” Howard’s tone was mercilessly insistent.

“Don’t be too sure.”

“You talk like an ingenue. Look at me. Do you love me?”

“Yes,” said Em. She startled herself with her unanticipated response. I don’t conceal things from myself!

4

New York Bohemia. The grave of achievement. The place artists leave as soon as they can. Tobacco smoke, sex talk, post-prohibition alcoholic messes, communism. New conventions more implacable than the old. “Yes, we’re married, but—” Envy, mysticism, scandal, art, homo-sexuality, hope. Coteries: painters, writers, sculptors, poets, batikers, critics, back-room theaters, “just artists in living,” suum cuique, fools, children, people. A few human beings not yet tired of the lure. Greenwich Village needs food. A very few working pitiably. Once in a year a moment of beauty that catches one’s throat. A little corner of life after the great war. The place that had been cruel to Les and Em.

The night of the party. Les’s pride made him go. Most of the guests were assembled by the time he and Em arrived. Howard met them at the door. His tall, stooped form seemed somber.

“I’m not going to introduce you.” He bent down to them and spoke distinctly amid the burst of sound that flowed into the hall. “You’ll know everybody before the evening is over, even if you don’t now.” He already felt a proprietary vanity in Em, but it did not keep him from resenting her. He hated to owe an intellectual pleasure to a woman.

Several fellow-painters recognized Em and drew her into their circle. Les seated himself in a corner by a girl he knew. Her eyes seemed honest in the crowd. Near him Frank Stieg, the clever Village bore, was clearing his throat preparatory to further speech. Stieg was scarcely five feet tall and weighed perhaps ninety pounds. His skin, hair, mustache and goatee were all of the same yellow hue. His smoke-stained teeth and his eyes were brown. A tomthumb-uncle-sam physique. His voice startled one, however—it was enormous. A small group of girls hung on his words.

“He always discourses in triplets,” Lester’s acquaintance whispered maliciously.

“Everything comes to me in triads,” Stieg boomed suddenly. “I’m at a book now—on Aristophanes, Villon and Rabelais. Humorists if you please—that is male wits. The humorist is hopeless and therefore tolerant.”

“But contemporary—” A fair auditor hesitated and was drowned.

“Today? None! They’ve winked out in Anatole France, Schnitzler and Hermann Bahr.”

As the crash of Stieg’s voice died away Les caught the thin sound of a woman’s tones near him. He glanced at its almost emaciated hungry-eyed owner, who was talking earnestly to a stout young Jew. This was the Great Critic, and he had coldly focused blue eyes.

“When the dream becomes unbearable your psychic censor—” The hungry woman was absurdly wealthy. The Critic listened.

“Another book on Tacitus, Cervantes and Swift,” shouted Stieg. “Yes, satirists—female wits. The satirist has faith, poor thing—wants to make things better.”

Across the room Pierre Gouvain, the sculptor, his long black hair rumpled, his charming eyes glowing, was gesticulating and almost screaming.

“My weemen may be fat, but zat iss not ze question. Ze question iss, are zey not beautéfool?” He glared at his vis-à-vis indignantly.

The hungry-eyed woman’s voice again intervened.

“—incest-wish is the well-spring of all romance.”

“Modern satirists!” Stieg was bawling contemptuously. “Mark Twain, Shaw and Rose Macauley!”

“In prison again?” Two feminine Radicals had paused near Les. The elder, a poet, was speaking. “Poor dear! Yes, she’s an eagle, too.”

Howard, a tray in his hands, approached them.

“Won’t you have a glass of wine?”

“Ugh!” shivered the younger of the two women: it was Eve, Genevieve’s friend, just back from Moscow with an entirely new shade of hair. “I couldn’t. It reminds me of—the blood of Russia.”

“Rousseau, Byron and Romain Rolland—” Stieg’s larynx was like a trumpet.

“All Schopenhauer meant was the libido,” sang the hungry soul’s high soprano. “The phallic symbol of—”

“Humph!” snorted Stieg. “Jean Jacques’ grandchildren—Wassermann, Van Eeden and our younger English novelists.”

Les looked around the room for Em. His glance passed Lou Kohn, leading amateuse of the Teacup Theater (who was draped against a door à la Sarah Bernhardt), and rested on Em and Howard—alone in a window-seat. He rose and walked toward them. His girl acquaintance turned to a neighbor.

“Mr. Drane’s not a poet because he says he isn’t,” she remarked carefully.

A last hungry piping followed Les.

“—such as Gridley’s novel on the Elektra complex. It’s not only narcistic fixation—”

A final stentorian challenge from Stieg.

“St. Paul, Spinoza and Nietzsche—all Gottbetrunkene Menschen.”

Les reached Em’s side. Her cheeks were crimson. She looked up quickly.

“Shall we go, Em?”

“Sorry you must run away,” said Howard kindly.

Les and Em knew many in the throng: Eitero Tanaka, smiling in silence all evening, Jasper Jobson the successful novelist, looking successful, Dhas Mitra (and his turban) whose single exclamation for all occasions was “Elephant!” and Carmen Stubbs—always like a character-actress playing the part of a prostitute—“One thousand bucks for a single story, my dear!” Little Celia St. John, ever the center of a group of men, smiled up into the face of a giant young painter as Em and Les passed. Celia recalled a wax lily.

“Well, tired little boy, if it’s too far to your place, you might spend the night with me, only one flight down in this same building,” she was saying. No one laughed.

All this … understand … belong … Howard … Dante … limbo … he and Em … Les felt sick.

“Thoreau, Whitman and myself—all revoltés,” yelled Stieg as the door was closing after them.

5

Les was alone in Jane Street. His face was a little more lined, his eyes deeper. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, at last picked up a book of short stories by a young writer he admired. He opened the volume idly.

“Everyone knows of the talking artists. Throughout all of the known history of the world they have gathered in rooms and talked. They talk of art and are passionately, almost feverishly, in earnest about it. They think it matters much more than it does.”

Les put down the book. Em … the party last night … how can she … once she was like me … God, how he hated Greenwich Village! Letters. He knew Howard’s handwriting. One lay open on the table from which he had taken the book. He tried not to look at it.

“My darling,

“When can you come again? The only mystery is flesh—ideals are manageable—they are for fools—”

The words blurred.

She has always put me between her and life. Living in a well of emotion, remote from consequences. Jealous of what she doesn’t give. I can’t fight it. Breasts whiter than snow … wings like curved flames … funeral pyre of stars.…

His tears were real, anyway.

He was alone. I must think. His eyes that sometimes glowed blue with kindness were pale and vague. Howard was the type he abhorred. How can such a thing be? I have—I have—I can’t think. She has—she would stop at nothing to see me feel. Reduce the beloved object, expects from me what she’s killed, not kind even to those at her mercy.…

Les sobbed once, wiped his eyes. He tried to overcome his grandiosity—to condemn Em. It’s about good enough for her. No. She’s mine … little Em.… The heavy muscles hardened under his coat.

“God damn that jumping jack!”

No. This is 1923. It’s not done.

He went out to walk.

6

Why does one talk.… Les never had realized that Em’s medium was not words. Even when he saw her trembling and weeping at a canvas he realized it only intellectually. He was continually aghast before her incomplete revelations.

I am worse. I say more but I talk like a stockbroker. We must understand things together. His heart shook. He remembered her coming to him. Eyes giving … breasts pointing … body calling … something not in words.…

Five o’clock. Into the crowded street. He escaped from the Empire State Trust Company’s building as from a mountain. It’s not that long-legged crane. He’s only an irritant. I should have shown Em that I love her. Poor little child.…

Les climbed the stairs slowly. Oh, how I hate talkytalk. In the half-light that filled the long comfortable room Em sat, bent over his desk, her face lying in her arms. Her frail shoulder-blades heaved.

“Sweetheart—” Les touched her shoulder. She raised her white tear-blotted face. “Em, I want us to see things clearly.” Em’s eyes cannot look like that! Where … appeal to death … how can she.…

“This is a fine time to begin,” she cried savagely.

“We must look at things now as we shall in another year from now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Drane.” He removed his hand from her shoulder. She’s childish. He resented her indulgence in irresponsible emotions and tried to envy her, but his pride would not let him. “You ought to realize what I feel, no matter what I say,” she sobbed abruptly.

“I understand, Em.”

“Oh, but you don’t—”

“Em, my God—”

“You make me feel I’m a horrible creature.” She moaned carelessly. “If you cared for what I—you only think about it, about what other people will think—” She wanted to condemn herself beyond argument. He was cruel, too. He wanted to subjugate her so he could be kind to her.

Les seated himself close to her. He did not touch her.

“I don’t care what people think, dear. It’s not you, but your suffering that hurts me. I don’t feel the same things, but I feel. Can’t you see that?” Another lecture. Where are the students? I’ll write tracts next. I’ve held her in my arms. Nights … roses pale in sleep … white ghosts of clouds.…

“Yes, Les, I see that you suffer in your own way.” She straightened up, drew a long breath. Diagrammatic emotions—lost in his own generality. “Les—”

“Yes, Em.” Why did we give up so much for each other?

“If you’d only kissed me instead of getting hurt. So many times.” She spoke dully.

“I can’t get over things as quickly as you, Em.” His lips quivered. He controlled his voice well.

“I’m sorry,” said Em.

“Em, can’t you—” he began timidly.

“I’m unfitted for any human relationship, Les.” Her eyes suddenly swam with tears again. Suspend yourself from his strength—ugh!

“Oh, Em—” He reached swiftly toward her, but she evaded his gesture.

The bell rang. Les seized his hat and opened the door.

“Good evening,” said Howard. “Should you people like to go some place to dinner?”

“I’ll bring candles.” Em left the room.

“Sit down,” Les invited.

Em returned with lights. As she set them down the vague glow made her face look strange. Her hair was smoothed, her cheeks rouged.

“I have an engagement.” Les carefully creased the crown of his hat.

Howard hesitated, almost contemptuously.

“Don’t look at me like that, Howard.” Em laughed uneasily. “It’s just plain pip. Les and I both have it. I’ll go with you.”

7

Sunday morning. Les rose from the breakfast table and sought his hat and ulster. Em spoke timidly.

“I’ll come too, Les, if you’re going to walk.”

He halted, in his eyes a mixture of fear and desire.

“I’d love to have you.”

Something in his gaze made her ashamed for them both.

They found the park. They walked silently side by side. Each held an effort to overlook the other’s misunderstanding. They tacitly strolled away from the thronged roads. A pool. Bare tree beside it. Twigs grasping stiffly at emptiness. Em and Les stopped and stood together on the path.

“We ought to be frank, Les.” She glanced at his face with merciless interest. She was afraid of menacing unreality. He has the secret of permanence, she thought.

“I’ve tried to be frank,” he said.

“Inside yourself maybe, but not to me, Les.”

“You don’t want frankness, Em. You don’t want to know me.”

“Nor you me.”

Moment by moment their sense of virtue was deepening their resentment. Les’s fear conquered the surface of his hurt.

“Yes, I do, Em. I’ve tried—”

Em was blindly rebellious. She did not want her emotion to be crystallized. Self-righteous—nobody loves me, she cried within herself. Les was unable to go on. Nobody capable of tenderness. Love of a savage. He hated sex. If it must be like this I don’t—Human pity … hurt.…

“I must have intensity, Les—somebody to let go with me. Oh, can’t you see? You make me feel as if there were nothing real.”

“I must have love that is kind. Love that recognizes me, that is not ugly. My reality isn’t cruel—turgid. I’d rather have nothing than that. I—”

“Rather than me, is what you mean!” Her face was drawn and in her widened eyes lay humiliation and triumph. “Well, I’ll have something—no matter what!” She left him.

Les felt alone, in the park. All these people.… Like Em—I’m not either kind. He was helpless but dumbly certain of his needs. If I have to lose her.… He could almost have hated her now. I can’t bear it.…

Chapter IV
A Point of Time

“Never, never, I return:
Still for Victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I’ll have:
And when dead I’ll be thy Grave.”

William Blake—(Rossetti MS.)

1

Em sometimes feared Howard. She wished his detachment were often less complete. His contempt of morality seemed to her a little false. We’re all dependent on each other, she thought, why pretend to ignore it?

His tall frame was grotesque. His aquiline profile, his receding brow—almost beautiful in its clear line—his eyes. They were his most compelling feature: translucent greenish-brown, abstraction and elation, a half-mad look. When he was stirred their focus relaxed. He suggested capacity for abandon, and irresponsibility. His hands were ugly—hopelessly sensitive. He invited one to evoke his emotions, yet one knew he would disdain consequences.

Les’s solid blue eyes.

Howard did not consider her. I consider him, she thought.

“Drane is too frank in his worship to make it valuable.” Howard was secretly a little afraid of Les. His effort to despise him showed it. If one feels, it’s real though it hurts, Em thought as she watched Howard walking beside her, his angular features, his sweet bitter mouth, curved and hard. But how can he say such things? (“Don’t believe in good taste,” he had once said. “Involves too many modifications of my self-expression.”) Now he continued, taking jerky puffs at a cigarette. “A woman like him would have made him like you.”

Em looked at Howard malignantly.

“You shan’t talk this way.”

“Pooh! He’s a great man. I’ve said nothing against him. I’m speaking of you. Must be terrible to take oneself seriously, though. The most frightful of all decisions is to decide not to decide.” Howard didn’t want to have to respect the feeling between Em and Les. Why doesn’t he give her up? “I can’t live on vicarious excitement myself.”

“He’s an angel,” vowed Em.

“Exactly.” Howard grimaced.

“I hate you.” Tears stood in her eyes.

“Better try him again. He’ll never fail you. But don’t forget that what’s invariable is dead.”

2

Les had said nothing more to Em. They lived as before, except that Em didn’t paint now. On occasion Les and Howard met naturally, modern style. Conversation on safe matters. Em was out a great deal. Les took longer and more frequent walks. When they were together they made each other unhappy. Em protested her theories of reality and denied to herself her feeling of guilt. But she couldn’t talk about Howard. It was Les’s fault. He wouldn’t let her, she told herself.

Morning and Empire State Trust Company. Streets stuffed with people. Les swung rapidly along. Why do I go to work? Two kinds of fools, men and women. I’m both kinds. I can’t be cynical—

One of the lesser bank officers greeted him.

“It’s a fine day, Mr. Drane.”

“Yes, indeed.” Yellow bearded sun … beams dripping a golden stain … leaves falling like dark tears … The difference between a man and a woman is a child. Reefs of clouds.…

He was in the high building. Elevators. Crowding employees.

“Mr. Sutton wants to see you, Drane.”

Glass door marked “Vice President,” bald Mr. Sutton, narrow nose deflected, eyes slumbering, “human dynamo.” Les opened the door. He had seen the man twice before.

“Sit down. Your work has shown considerable judgment. We’d like you to run out to Chicago and get the statistical men started off the right foot in the new branch we’ve just acquired—this is confidential as yet—formerly the Dearborn Trust Company. It’ll take you about a month or six weeks. An allowance will be made you for expenses while away.” Mr. Sutton made a note on a silver-bound memorandum calendar. “You’d better start Monday. Let’s see, Friday—take today and Saturday off and that’ll give you three days. Turn your work here over to young Babbitt. Good luck.” The Vice President smiled and held out his hand.

“Gee, I wish I was in your shoes!” Young Babbitt surveyed Les respectfully. “It’s the first step up for you, all right all right.”

3

Boy and girl, they sat in their living-room, Pale gray walls, purple painted floor and black rugs. On the low couch, pillows—red, green, heavy blue, purple, black. The old candlesticks on the mantel were dull. Through an archway Em’s workshop, her pictures, tense erotic colors harshly juxtaposed. Manuscript neat on Les’s desk by a window. The place held the affection of familiarity.

Both were thinking of his coming departure. I wonder if he cares. He won’t talk about it. Les watched the blackness quietly fall. Leopard night put on your mottled cloak. Moon passing along the street of heaven. Good to be together in the dark. Forever and ever.… Em safe.… Tenderness had them both. I can’t lose her. I can’t leave him. Candles burning by their bed in the next room. They could scarcely see each other in the dim light, she like a slender wraith, he formless and motionless. They drew unconsciously closer together.

“Em.” His voice was quiet.

“Yes.”

“I feel that my going—that—”

“Yes, dear.”

“If you could only be—”

“Be you.”

Pain sprang at their throats. They talked on in the night. Something between. Neither thought of Howard. No anger. Both drew away sick.

4

She found Howard pacing up and down his apartment.

“I’m glad you’ve come at last, Em. It’s been two days since you were here.”

“Don’t be silly, Howard. Les is going to Chicago day after tomorrow. I wanted to see something of him.”

“I must wait for my turn.”

Em flushed.

“That’s not very nice, Howard.”

“I don’t bother over niceties, except in art.”

His eyes would not meet hers. Em was elated at his displeasure. She seated herself and studied first one Japanese print on the wall and then the other.

“They’re lovely,” she remarked.

“Yes, I’m sophisticated.” His lips curled. “Superiority of a limited view.”

Em smiled.

“You’re not very good-tempered, are you, sonny?” She leaned back gracefully and clasped her hands behind her head. “You’re a cute child, though,” she added. Howard still paced the room. Em contentedly lighted a cigarette. The energy of the instant was food to her. “Howard—”

“Shut up,” he growled.

Her apparent humility had been the momentary inversion of intense vanity. She stood up, coldly.

“It’s not necessary to be any cruder. I’m going.”

Howard stopped in front of her. Her sudden malignant antagonism fired him. His greenish-brown eyes were sharp and excited. Though his glance touched her long white neck, her defiant head, her breasts rising and falling beneath her smock, he scarcely seemed to see her.

“You’re not going.” He seized her roughly in his arms, crushed her to his body, kissed her mouth and eyes. When Howard was stirred by her, physically or emotionally, she felt that he was wrapped in the experience of himself. Even now she was depressed at being shut out of him while she was the stimulus of his passion. But a sort of morbid pleasure and power came to her as she saw him react to her so intensely, though he disavowed her. She did not resist. He said, “You are going to stay with me tonight.”

5

A bright clear cold morning, dust of the city in the sunlight like fine bronze powder.

Em turned a corner swiftly and almost ran into the arms of Genevieve. Mark and Blanche were with her. Genevieve, no matter how studied the appearance of her dress, invariably gave the impression that she was carelessly groomed. She was fond of dull colors and severe lines, velvets which seemed a little shabby, and fur trimmings that were barbaric without being smart.

“Why, how are you, dear?” She exclaimed in pleased surprise. “We haven’t seen you for a long time. What is the matter? Have you given us up for some new group of our younger intellectuals? Is Les well?”

“He’s in Chicago,” said Em. Her eyes did not meet Genevieve’s.

“In Chicago?” exclaimed Blanche. “Well, I like that! Why in the world didn’t he let some of his friends know? You’d better look out or he’ll find some other girl out there. I’d never have let him go alone. You know I said to John—” Blanche giggled and began her monologue that no one ever listened to.

“Well, my feelings are hurt.” Genevieve’s frank eyes confirmed her words.

Em hesitated guiltily.

“He had to go suddenly.”

“I know—” Mark paused, his gawky figure drooping. Almost passionately helpless, his aggressive tolerance for others was an unconscious excuse for self-tolerance.

Genevieve was disconcertingly definite.

“Are you going, too?”

Em hesitated again, and answered timidly. She could lie gorgeously, but hated puny and implied falsehoods.

“I—think so.”

“Well, don’t you serve us the same way, dear. Let me know in plenty of time and we’ll give a farewell party. I shan’t know what to think if you don’t.” Genevieve spoke tartly, but her smile and eyes were affectionate.

“How is Stuart?” asked Em. She drew a long breath.

“Terribly depressed. His last story was promptly turned down. He’s trying to get another started. Good-by, dear.” She kissed Em.

Mark tore himself away from Blanche and took Em’s hand. He smiled without speaking, his sensitive mouth trembling slightly.

“Bye-bye, darling,” said Blanche heartily. “You know, Mark, I think that John—” Her monotonous voice floated back as the three passed on.

Em walked slowly in the other direction.

6

“Dear Les,

“I’m going away with Howard. It will be easier to go before you get back.

“If you had wanted to talk to me before you left it might have been different. You’ve never thought of what I’ve wanted, always of what I ought to want. We’re going to Europe. I can’t bear New York. I haven’t told anybody about it.

“I think you can’t understand why I suffer because you can’t share it. Les, I was never allowed to do things from childhood, not even little things like to ride or swim. Always things decided for me. I’ve been trying to give myself to someone ever since I grew up, but I never found anyone who wanted me—the me that I know. People always like me at first and then get afraid of me. Even you have been afraid of me. I don’t think he will. I want to be loved, but for what I am.

“Perhaps I don’t know what love is. I guess it’s oneself. I know you’ve been jealous, when you knew I’d stayed with Howard. I’ve been jealous of you too, but only of your past and your vagueness about it. I wouldn’t have cared what you did when you were with me. I couldn’t be jealous of anything I knew. Then it would be mine.

“I can’t work. Maybe I can afterwards. I hope you can finish your novel, too. Oh, Les, I will always love you.

Em.”

7

“Dear Em,

“I have been thinking over your letter all night.

“I don’t feel that Howard Story is really part of things at all. It is something more than that.

“Your resentments toward me have been subtly growing since we first knew each other. I could have lived your life or mine, but not both. I cannot be alternately loved and despised. I hate the atmosphere of formless horror that has gradually come to hover over us. You’ve grown more and more pitiless in wringing reactions from me. One occasion for hurting me was as good as another. You’ve never had any compunction in striking the smile from my lips. You have traded on my potentiality for sacrifice, you have fed my fears for you. You always found ultimatums easier than kindness. You resent that I’ve never given you dramatic cause either for loving or punishing me. Yet you’ve insisted that I be happy as a tribute to you, that I build for you to tear down. You admit no resources you do not share, Em. Peace kills you.

“This isn’t blame or criticism. I’m sure you’re as much of a person as I. I’m only trying to explain things to myself. It may sound like a homily, but I can’t help it. I feel that you are in my life. I can’t get away from the feeling. Don’t ever do the one thing that is irrevocable, Em—please. Won’t you call on me at any time, for anything?

“I don’t know how long I shall stay in Chicago. I may be here a couple of months more.

“Les.”

8

He went down to the street to mail his letter. The act of walking. The call! Go away. Desert wastes. Vultures wheeling far above me. Tunneled growth. Leaves tingling with life. She not with me. Swamps. Pleading arms of mist … pain of God.… Of such were the real and excellent reasons for the expeditions that had made his reputation. No. I can’t run from life. Must take myself. A place to lie down. Baby on her breast.… He stopped suddenly. Not anguish of hunger.…

“I think my vanity is hurt,” he said.

He must write his novel. When he got back to his room at the hotel, he picked up some manuscript from his desk. Sheets of paper, what about? I remember it was half done. “Chapter XII. ‘Let me go—let me live,’ she sobbed piteously. He smiled. ‘You think you must be understood. Comprehension has nothing to do with love.’” Damn the fool book! What did I mean? He threw the pages aside. They together. Throbbing ship. Night.… He beat his head with his fists. If he drives her to death I’ll—But what for? It will be too late.

Figures were kind. Long columns, the longer the better, reams, no time to think.

The Chicago manager had been kind.

“Mr. Drane, I’ve written Mr. Sutton how extremely pleased we are with the work you’ve done while with us. I thought it only your due.” The manager paused and scrutinized Les. “I don’t see anything to laugh at, Mr. Drane.”

“That’s why I’m laughing.”

Drink. Make life purely physical. Other women. Whores. The girl at Howard’s party, she loves me. Ladies. Champagne-colored silk and chiffon. Breasts like marble.… No. Oh, Em, Em—

He gave up his passionate assumption of right. Finding relief in his self-contempt. I wanted to draw her to harmony with myself. To subjection. Terrible. She’ll not die now. Merciful God forgive. No God. How could I, how could I—Accept the body but refuse the spirit! A master unknown to me.…

Perhaps the romantic never gets hurt enough.

Book II: Howard

“I may be allowed to observe, that his honour, to my great admiration, appeared to understand the nature of the YAHOOS much better than myself. He went through all our vices and follies, and discovered many which I had never mentioned to him, by only supposing what qualities a YAHOO of their country, with a small proportion of reason, might be capable of exerting; and concluded, with too much probability, how vile, as well as miserable, such a creature must be.”

Jonathan Swift—“Gulliver’s Travels”

Chapter I

The Island in the Moon

“Schwarz— | You’re just making believe!
Lulu— | You’re making believe yourself, it seems to me.
| I make believe? What makes you think that?
| I never needed to do that.”

Frank Wedekind—“Erdgeist”
(Trans. S. A. Eliot, Jr.)

1

Home again! Liberty drowning in the harbor, Manhattan mushrooms sprouting in the haze (lower Broadway dividing them like a gash), murky snakes of water curling round the low island—the big ship slouches up to the pier. Tiny tugs and thin hawsers tease her into the slip, and gently and imperceptibly she is captured, bound helpless to the land. High above, on the upper deck, Howard and Em silently watched the waiting crowd on the dock. No familiar face. Em shivered slightly.

“Cold? Suppose we go on shore here.” Howard’s tone was careless. He did not look at her.

Bustle, luggage, customs inspector, porters.

“Get me a taxi.”

“Here you are, sir.”

Streets of New York. Clanging cars, autos, whish! trucks thundering, screaming fire-engine, scattering people, black crowds, all dead, tramp, tramp, thud, thud, something steady and awful. Over all, this giant rhythm. A dark face in the mass on the sidewalk, Dhas Mitra, “Elephants!” Through Em’s mind stride the lines of a young New York poet.

“With huge diaphanous feet,
March the leaden velvet elephants,
Pressing the bodies back into the earth.”

And the sky overhead was dull, the buildings stood stiffly, remote and unfriendly amid the impudent din. The throbbing beat grew dim again. To Em the city seemed vague. It belonged to Les. She and Howard did not speak until the taxi drew up before Howard’s apartment.

“We’ll stop here, for the present at least,” he said. Dead gray walls, Matisse etching, two priceless Japanese prints, conspiring degradation and fear. Em was dumb. Did I ever belong here? Howard pointed to a door. “Take off your things in there.”

Em entered the bedroom and looked with wretched interest in the mirror. Her chin seemed more pointed, her cheek-bones accentuated. She had almost no color.

2

Em and Howard at Esther’s. Dingy cellar restaurant, flaring orange curtains, tables with rickets, spineless chairs, green candles, bad drawings by habitués. Skimpy table-of-the-host dinners, demi-celebrities. The place now favored by emotional dilettantes.

Conversation nine feet high!

“Dada is a snort—junge Kunst, pooh!—all art is music—Kokoscha—instead of giving you people gives the feeling people give him—” Howard seldom tried his brilliance on Em now. She ate laxly, almost without hearing him. But others were listening. His voice was raised a little. “Matthias Grünewald—de Sade with a brush—necrophiles—wax tears on a coffin—beauty is digestion—Renoirism—tra, la, la, la, la, la—don’t you think so, Em?”

“What did you say, Howard?”

“Why don’t you listen? Might learn something.” His voice, keyed lower, was hard. Something ached in her. The smell of Greenwich Village revolted her. Chicago. I wonder if I loved everything he did, she was helplessly musing. Not like Howard’s contemptuous understanding. “Indépendants—André Lhote—sugar teats—refusés—” The monologue across the little table became indistinct to her again. “Intransigents—communards—painting with a broom—blague—” Howard’s voice had become saw-like. “Why in hell don’t you pay some attention to what I say, Em?”

“I’m sorry, Howard.”

His face cleared at her unpassionate tone. Howard was just back from Europe.

“Cezanne—form and color have no—” he resumed complacently.

“You’ve said that before, Howard. I don’t care about the pathos of the artist’s expression, or impression. I can’t paint now.” Cezanne again! She longed for the liquid darkness outside. Les would—

“It’s because you’re losing your interest in it. Good thing. Art’s a perversion in women, anyway.” Howard laughed. Em bit her lips. He offered her a cigarette but she shook her head without looking at him. He was ashamed for her recent failures. When she did well, something in him hurt in resentment, but he boasted of her to others. He despised the blatant conceit of other men in sex. He wanted a woman who did him more subtle credit. “You ought to etch. Give you outline. You need it.” He lighted his own cigarette contentedly. “What did you think of what I said about Kokoscha?”

Her voice had stiffened.

“The same thing I thought the last time you said it. I can’t understand your idea that color and form are different things. I don’t care whether Kokoscha gives you people or the feeling people give him—you give me neither.”

Howard flushed.

“I’ll take back what I just said. What you need is a new man.”

“I need something besides what I get from you,” she flamed.

“Ditto,” said Howard viciously. He was a little frightened at his own words.

Life was more concrete to Em. She was glad of pain. It was definite and familiar.

3

Two days later they ran into a large group of Howard’s friends uptown. Too late to evade them.

“Of course you know Miss Tyler. She was nice enough to lunch with me today.” No implication that it was not a casual occurrence.

Em remembered that twice recently when the door-bell rang Howard had refused to answer. She wondered how many people he had written to about their relationship while they were abroad. She greeted his acquaintances distantly. Howard’s eyes menacing.

“Come right with us!” invited Carmen Stubbs raucously. Whorey-aired goodsoul, she was a perpetual virgin, yet kind. “It’s Celia’s twentieth birthday. We were just going into Boutelle’s here. We can get hooch. They know me. Just got paid for a bum story and I’m going to spend some of it on the dear child.” Pale delicate-featured Celia St. John did not even smile.

“All right,” acquiesced Howard without glancing at Em.

The party filed into the restaurant. Two tables in an alcove were pushed together.

“Me at the head of the board for once,” announced Carmen huskily. She patted the chair at her right. “And the blessed damozel must sit here.” Celia seated herself composedly. “Come up here, you.” Carmen beckoned to the Great Modern Critic, who had again honored the occasion with his presence. He glanced apprehensively around, visibly relieved at the absence of the Hungry Soul. The Critic seats himself at Carmen’s left.

Howard is next to Celia, Em between him and Jobson, the novelist. Mitra, at Jobson’s side, produces an olive-colored crumpled cloth from his coat pocket and calmly winds it about his head as a turban.

“And I go to the foot of the class for once.” The rafters ring with bullofbashan little Stieg’s proclamation. He seats himself impressively opposite Carmen. None of the others notice him. A passionate poetess, very fat and with hairy upper lip, is at Stieg’s right. Next her is Tanaka, smiling and silent. Les’s girl acquaintance sits between the Jap and the sculptor, Pierre Gouvain. She has candid eyes. There is considerable chatter and laughing as the party settles round the tables. Gouvain turns to the Critic.

“It wass you who haf said zat my weemen are fat, eh?” He rumples his black hair reproachfully.

The Critic (more impressive than when he spent the evening of Howard’s party in the clutches of the Hungry Soul) turns his blue fish-eyes on Gouvain, but his reply is inaudible in the general prefatory discussion of food. The ancient ascetic waiter, in full keeping with the faded hangings and shabby dignified furnishings, is bending discreetly over Howard and Em. Howard has ordered liberally. She shakes her head.

“Madame cares for nossing?”

Howard answers shortly.

“You bring the food and we’ll decide who’s to eat it.”

Synthetic cocktails, eagerly gulped by all save Em, the two Orientals and the Critic. Stieg breaks out (stentorian tones).

“All modern fiction can be traced to the influence of three men—my next book on Stendhal, Dostoievsky and—” (The Great Critic is beginning to speak and the company frowns resentfully at Stieg. Carmen says, “Sh‑h‑h.” Stieg, evidently overawed for the time, subsides.)

Carmen.—(Smiling to her left.) Shoot again, please.

Critic.—(Speaks quietly and insolently. His first words are heard only by those near him, but the others soon listen in silence.) The revolt against naturalism, through the neo-Stendhalians, such as, for example, Bourget, while a psychologic throw-back to Stendhal, still clings to the pseudo-scientific manner of Zola. The revolt is, of course, wider than this, and may be seen, too, in the—(The company grows restive. Whispering at the other end of the tables.)

Passionate Poetess.—(Known to her friends as P. P. Is heard audibly repeating her last verses to Tanaka.)

All his desire
Lisped in his yearning blood,
His hungry hands upon her gleaming thighs—

Celia.—(Laughs musically, her face like a Botticelli angel.) How much farther did he go? (The P. P. glowers. Tanaka stops smiling for the first time during the meal.)

Howard.—(Smiles at Celia, replies to something the Critic has said during the confusion.) Sternheim! Pooh! The expressionists belch instead of write!

(Em, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, stares steadfastly at her plate.)

Critic.—(With hauteur, raising his voice slightly.) In order intelligently to understand a movement one cannot overlook its genesis. The wave of naturalism that routed the Goethe-Heine romantic lyricism split up, as I see it, under three principal influences: Whitman, Nietzsche and the Russians—

Stieg.—(Eager, voice like a hallo.) A new book of mine, three—

Carmen.—(Hoarsely.) Be still, Stieg. (Adds briskly with cajoling cheerfulness.) Why won’t you kids listen?

(Em has not touched the food Howard has insisted on placing before her. Her face suggests vicious despair. The novelist, his mouth full, addresses her.)

Jobson.—(Enigmatically.) Good royalties! (This is his sole remark during the whole course of the meal. Em glares at him without reply. Jobson bends obliviously over his plate again. His Hindoo neighbor adjusts turban and exclaims explosively.)

Mitra.—Elephants! (Then, leaning behind the busy Jobson, he whispers caressingly to Em.) Little tiger! (Em does not appear to hear.)

Critic.—(Resuming Johnsonian sway with practiced hand.) All Russian literature is pre- or post-Pushkin. When he, with Gogol and Lermontov, brought—

Stieg.—(Almost screaming.) The three—

Half a Dozen Voices.—Shut up! Down, Fido! Chloroform! etc.

Gouvain.—(Clasping his head wildly.) What ze hell! I shall go—how you say?—dement.

(During the mêlée, the girl with candid eyes leans over the table and speaks to Em. Howard is intent on a whispered conversation with Celia, and does not hear.)

“How is Mr. Drane? I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

Em was very pale.

“He’s in Chicago.”

Stieg’s feelings were evidently hurt, because the P. P. was cautiously consoling him with more verse. The Critic held the floor again.

“In Italy the reaction away from the grandiose gestures of Carducci, D’Annunzio and Pascoli—” (Stieg trembled at the mention of a trinity, but the P. P. soothed him) “the spiritual voracity of Papini and the fanatical ethicism of Croce—”

Em ceased to hear the cadenced tones. Brrh! Not their equal in sophistication, not Howard’s equal! He trying to reduce me as an artist! Never himself except in jest. This is their Bohemia! Bloodless. Cynical. Ugly and false life. Death of art. I’m more than all of them. I’m honest—not—I’m—I’m—I wonder how well Les knows that girl with nice eyes. Les. He’s the only one good—A burning wave flooded her. Les! Where are you—She breathed quickly and her eyes were suffused with unshed tears. Mad—better to die—The people and sounds all grew dim. Howard still whispering to Celia—Em rose unsteadily from the table.

“I’m going, Howard,” she said in a hysterical undertone.

The Critic paused in the middle of a word and looked peevish.

“Why dearie—” Carmen expostulated breathily.

Howard turned.

“You can’t go now.” He spoke rapidly in a low voice and tried to pull her down. Her face was pale and she jerked her arm from Howard’s grasp. Pierre Gouvain’s beautiful eyes sent her a look that made her grateful. “You win,” said Howard with slow malice. He turned away from her and resumed his talk, trying not to acknowledge his confusion even to himself. She could humiliate him.

Mitra shot Howard a glance of feline hate, but was immediately again impassive. Trembling, Em adjusted a fur scarf about her neck. She tried to keep from seeing the eyes turned upon her, especially the eyes of Les’s girl friend, who looked frank and sympathetic.

“Are you ill? Shall I go with you?”

“No!” Em’s mouth quivered and she almost whimpered as she hastily left the table.

The P. P. was holding Stieg’s hand.

“I hope you—” Celia’s cool saint-eyes lingered on Howard’s.

“I’m not going,” he said shortly.

Carmen beckoned to the waiter.

“More wine, son,” she whispered shrilly.

As Em moved between the other tables toward the door, the group she had left relaxed into attitudes of relief. The Critic settled himself with dignity and resumed his oration.

“The rejection by the younger Scandinavian writers of the realistic formula—”

4

Em rushed rapidly, almost running, along the slate-colored side street. The cold wind flapped her dark skirt against her knees. She carried her gloves in one hand, her bare fingers felt like ice. The sky was unendurable, a gray that had no blue or pink in it, gray like a dead dilution of lampblack. The whole world was terror.

No happiness or unhappiness, only pain, nothing strong and beautiful. I am an artist. Oh, I need—Where shall I seek? These people. The froth of life. This Howard with no mercy. Oh, Les—he servant of peace, dead in calm—Em was crying but she did not wipe away her tears.

She stopped short. I wonder if Howard and Celia went—She can’t be hurt. Em hugged her own power of being hurt. She had to convince herself of life. I can get peace alone. I don’t want—The sky is dead.

Oh, I won’t die, she said to herself. It was almost as if she had spoken the words aloud.

Several children paused in their play to look solemnly at her. Em turned and started for Howard’s apartment.

5

The thin sunshine thrust through the overhanging haze and waved its broad smoky-silver fans of light at all the strange pale windows of the city. In Howard’s apartment the small clock ticked garrulously to the secretive walls and to the something of silence that filled the rooms.

Celia’s birthday had been too symbolic.

Em and Howard both hurt for days. This morning after breakfast she sits wordless by a window. Medium height and slim, feet under her, body curved nicely into a chair. Lilac smock, flood of hair, too heavy brows, too thin nose, too narrow long chin, all lovely in profile. Les is right. Tongues in cheeks. No art. Life without conduct. The way to death. She was using Les’s thoughts unknowingly. Howard sulks, coarse wiry hair untidy, avian head thrust forward, walking back and forth with graceless steps. Wish she were never anything but profile! Em disenchanted! Rot! What pretentiousness! He felt he had been uselessly humiliated. Not enough, Em thought. Savagely helpless.

The clock ticked blithely and shamelessly.

“How long is this going to last?” he jerked out finally, pausing to light a cigarette.

“I don’t care how long it lasts, Howard.” Em did not look up. She was seeking for his weapons. “I’m perfectly satisfied.”

“You look it,” said Howard with a sarcasm that he knew to be feeble.

Em could be grim. Howard’s vanity needed that their relation should mean more to her than to him. I must be like them, she told herself.

“Well, I am. I never expected too much. You’re only an experience, young Mr. Story—I knew that when I took you—and you’ve been one.”

It seemed sinister that Em should be flippant. Always so direct. I’m the one—Besides, he was suffering from silence. Howard was not coldly, but temperamentally superficial. He could be brilliant only when he was in the ascendant. He knew that Em had cried alone in the night, and now he looked at her with mingled curiosity and fear.

“What are you talking about, Em?”

“Women are cut off from different experiences. I don’t mean to be. You’ve taught me something. Not much. You play one tune, but it’s in different keys, you know. So my time’s not entirely wasted, is it?” Her face was hard. Oh, how can I, she groaned soundlessly. No real words to reach anyone. To feel only through hatred. To test life by its pain—She was tired of it.

Howard was silent. Tinkle of the door-bell. Em rose. A telegram. Howard received the envelope and handed it to her. She opened it.

“Oh, Howard!” She burst into tears.

“What is it?” he asked with nervous impatience.

“My pictures, my pictures!”

“Those we left in Paris with Lepelletier? What’s happened to them?”

“Yes! He got three hung at the Munich show, and one received honorable mention! You remember the one, the purply-orange thing? Dear old Lepelletier! He always believed in me.”

“Well, what are you crying for?” Howard was not gracious.

“For delight,” she wept.

“You seem delighted,” he remarked cuttingly.

Em was oblivious to his vexation.

“I am! Oh, I am, I am!” She laughed hysterically, tears still in her eyes and running down her cheeks. “Oh, Howard, I’m so happy!” She seized him in a bear’s hug and danced him unwillingly around the room. Em felt vindicated. This was the answer to her doubts. I can work now, she thought joyously. She was already far away from all pettiness. Life was resolved once more. Now her pride was untainted with artifice. She felt, without suffering. She loved Howard. The world was real again. I wish Les knew—“Isn’t it gorgeous?” She released Howard and dived contentedly among the feathery cushions on a couch, Her cheeks had a thin color and her eyes were softly brilliant. She lighted a cigarette and began to smoke briskly and with gusto.

Howard’s sex vanity had always, half-consciously, kept him from showing Em his reluctant admiration of her superiority as an artist. His etchings were not fine. They were workmanlike. That his temperament was for life and not for art hurt him. He felt maimed, and like a cripple he wanted to torture something for it. His appreciations were keen enough to see that Em’s passionate particularness in feeling was real art, and that his intellectual mood-stuff was formula. This added to the bitterness of his half-acknowledged jealousy that tried to destroy her, that his own art—which he secretly despised—might live. Now he was chafed by the addition of European tribute coming so soon after the light words she had used about his importance as a lover. His mightiness was raw, and he chose words with deliberation.

“Not surprising,” he said carelessly. “You’re in style. Women can adapt. I admit you’re clever, but of course this fad you excel in won’t last.”

Her beautiful teeth still showed in a happy smile. His jealousy was too obvious to take seriously. She almost loved him for it.

“Howard’s mad,
And I’m glad,
And I know what to p‑l‑e‑a‑s‑e him,” she sang impudently. Something in her again wanted her life with him. She wanted it simple. Howard never was. He had always to be playing to an audience in himself. He was afraid of his own self-criticism. He did not smile.

“Emotional language without meaning, a Rodin technique applied to nothing—”

“You’re very kind, Mr. National Arts Clubber!” Em tossed her head with lofty sarcasm.

“Kindness is an attempt to focus attention on oneself. I forego that to point out that being mentioned by a small bunch of esthetic quacks in Germany isn’t immortality.” Howard’s green-brown eyes sparkled and his mouth recovered its curve. He was tearing now, not being torn.

Em pointed a teasing finger at him.

“Sour grapes! Sour grapes! You formulated old etcher. You’re jealous. Booh!”

“I wish I were,” he retorted cruelly.

She flinched, but continued to smile.

“Well, let’s go out to lunch and celebrate, anyway. You might have thought of that, and not I.”

Em’s elation was broken but not dead. She still hoped, but belief was tainted. He didn’t mean it, she insisted to herself. I hadn’t been very nice to him. I don’t think he meant it. But she could no longer whole-heartedly delight in her good fortune.

Howard felt absurd. The blatancy of his outburst made him ridiculous to himself, and vicious toward Em. To be justified he had to discover the falseness of her art. He began to study her work with a warped bitterness of criticism. Complacency is the beginning of the end, he thought. At least I’m decently dissatisfied with myself.

Chapter II

Mirror Maze

“Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
God must judge the couple! leave them as they are—
—Whichever one’s guiltless, to his glory,
And whichever one the guilt’s with, to my story.”

Robert Browning—“Men and Women”

1

Em did not find herself able to achieve a single canvas that pleased her. Day after day slipping away, winter skies, bare trees brushing them, cloud-dust flying. I feel like a housekeeper. Intellectually she still believed in herself, but Howard was shaking her confidence in her work.

“You’d better take my work-room at the back,” Howard had offered. More than once, trying to paint, she heard voices in the front rooms. I wonder why he doesn’t call me. “I must get on with my plates, Em.” Whole days away from her. “I’m working over at Algeria’s studio.”

Once Em walked by Algeria’s place. Howard—a key in his hand—on the steps with Celia, Carmen and Mitra. Em almost slunk along the opposite sidewalk. Mitra saw me. I wonder—She unconsciously avoided that street afterwards.

Dinner at Esther’s again. Green candles still, and orange glow. People, strange to Em, bowing to Howard. After the meal, as she preceded him from the room, he lingered to speak to several at one of the tables. One girl pretty. Friendly voices, pleasant laughter. He did not call Em back. Why doesn’t he introduce me?

Em’s ponderings were not obvious. She was too well established as a painter. She had fed too long on Les’s pride in her as a woman. Once a little warmth in her heart. Howard wants to be with me—But his fear of touching—his absences. She was not subtle in rationalizing her instinct. She became remote, avenging wall. Howard kept her in as much precariousness as she had kept Les. No fire to warm, even to hurt: not even pain to grasp at. Significant that Em, of all people in the world, said nothing.

Again Howard yawned at dinner. Frankness, even in boredom, never repelled her like uncertainty.

“Why can’t we take some of your friends to dinner next time?” she suggested. Em looked frail as she removed her gloves and threw back the fur collar of her cloak.

“Can’t afford it. We can have Celia and Mitra in tomorrow night, though, if you like.”

“All right,” listlessly. I’m producing nothing. (Her little fund realized on occasional former pictures was gone.) I wish I could—Can’t live on honorable mention by ultra-modern nuts or praise from esoteric radicals. Having no money irked Em. You buy self-respect. Stuff! I mustn’t be petty.

Mitra and Celia came. A yellow turban was rolled this time. Celia Burns-Jonesy in gray against the gray walls. Cigarettes and Howard’s Jumping artyart talk, what jewjaw! Celia crept closer to him on the couch. Mitra rose from the other side of Howard and stood near Em. His bronze eyes were fixed on one of the Japanese prints.

“That was a wild party you gave us Saturday night, Howard.” Celia’s cool languid voice reached well. “I don’t remember all of what Tod Smith did to me. It must have cost you—” I suppose he nudged her, thought Em, glancing furtively at Mitra’s face.

“I’m trying to work these days. My last things—” Howard’s voice was too loud. Mitra whispered intensely to Em under the cover of it.

“Celia very ’fraid of me, won’t gabble about you, Jewelstar, tiger love tiger, don’t talk—” His beautiful swarthy hand touched her hair as he pointed to the Japanese print.

And Em did not talk. Howard and Celia were murmuring, she fingering his coat-sleeve. The clock ticked stolidly. Mitra, a half-smile on his purple lips, drew a chair before Em, seated himself, and joined her silence.

Howard and Celia pause uneasily, and she drawls:

“You two aren’t very boisterous!”

Mitra rises, unwinds his turban, takes up his hat and coat without a word. Em rises also. Celia pouts.

“You surely aren’t going so soon?”

He nods.

“Well, you can just go on then. I’m not coming till I get good and ready.”

Em walked into the hall with Mitra, and from there to her room. She did not return.

2

Rain. Gray threads of rain tangling the clouds to the earth. Streets and buildings enameled with a thin drab film. Shut in together. Howard was peevish, irritation of the tricked. Em’s restraint was ominous.

“Em, why in the devil do you pull off stunts like last night?”

Em’s eyes half-closed. I have vanity without pride, she thought, with an inner sob.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friends?”

“Last night is a good reason for not introducing you to any more of them.”

“Why don’t you tell them we’re living together?” Quibbling, why doesn’t he fight? Suffering and anger.

“They both know it.”

“How many more know it?” Babyish lying by implication.

Howard hesitated almost imperceptibly.

“I suppose a lot of people.”

“How many have you told?” Em clenched her teeth. Concealing it! Wants to keep from making the affair irrevocable. I loathe him!

Howard blustered.

“Em, you make me sick! What in the world’s the use—”

“Whom are you ashamed of, yourself or me?” she demanded hotly.

He winced.

“Who said I was ashamed of either of us?”

“You say it with every breath—sneaking and hiding like a pickpocket!”

He lighted a cigarette nervously.

“Will you listen—”

“Don’t worry any more. I’ll never go where I’m likely to meet any of your friends again.” Her tone was like a knife.

Howard was not a master of cuttlefish psychology. He knew he was safer in attack than in defense.

“What about Drane?” he demanded suddenly. “Do you suppose he is yearning for everybody in New York to know you left him for me?”

Em realized that it was a trick, but she was grateful to hear Les’s name on his lips. She even ignored the conscious crudeness of the words. She felt that Howard had despised her for her own frankness about Les. Any directness was priceless, and the half-truth served now. The vision of Les’s taciturn vanity supplied the rest.

“No, Howard,” she answered more quietly.

He studied her before continuing.

“Don’t you think a person like him would be hurt by a thing like that?”

“Yes.” Her face cleared.

“Then what are you ragging me for?” Injured voice. “It’s just possible I was considering what you would want, if you ever thought about it, as well as myself.”

Em distrusted kindness in Howard, but his irritated tone reassured her. She never resisted confession.

“Howard, I’m sorry I acted the way I did.” She went to him.

Triumph always made him amorous. He kissed her roughly. Her lips hurt. She felt she was living. Em did not always love friction, but she always feared evasions.

3

“I believe in being frank about expenses,” Howard said frequently. “Money’s the last convention to go. When you want anything, say so.”

Em’s vanity had chafed under the daily pointing up of his independence. The impression of sincerity in his continued remarks had at first disarmed her, but notwithstanding her intellectualizations she had become unwillingly sensitive. With Les—their food and common possessions had seemed unobtrusive and kindly.

She and Howard were in a cozy old neighborhood restaurant, not extensively patronized, but faithfully clung to by the knowing. Em was in good spirits. Her eyes were calmer. A canvas had balked all morning and then suddenly started well: she had worked up to dinnertime. She was in a mood to enjoy the cheerful little tables, the low buzz of talk, the friendly clatter of plates and cutlery that came to them as they went in. It had been raining outside: and the window beside them was silver with mist and darkness.

“What are you taking, Howard?” she asked gayly as they seated themselves.

“Mutton.”

“I want guinea-hen and mushrooms. They cook it beautifully here. Don’t you like it?”

“Yes,” said Howard.

“Then why don’t you have it, too?” Em’s smile tonight lighted her face that had grown somewhat thinner.

“Too expensive,” he answered shortly.

That’s because I haven’t been working, thought Em in a surge of wrath. No money! She remembered her home as a girl. Conventional men! They’re all the same. The proprietress came to their table. She was stout and motherly with mournful affectionate eyes. Her husband cooked and she acted as waitress.

“What is you would like for your dinner?” she asked solicitously. “Papa has made very nice the guinea-fowl tonight.”

“Roast mutton,” replied Howard, not looking up.

Em studied the card.

“I’ll have some toast and a glass of milk.”

“What! So little yet!” The woman smiled at her sadly and demurely.

“I thought you wanted guinea-hen.” Howard’s voice was irritated.

“Toast and milk,” Em repeated, smiling determinedly at the proprietress.

“The luxury of martyrdom added to the virtue of economy,” he sneered as soon as they were alone again.

Em tried to think. Why can’t I be detached—No use, I don’t want—It must come out, I suppose it’s because we’re all wrong about everything.

“I can’t see you pay too much for your privileges as a lover, Howard.”

“Oh, I expected that!” he retorted viciously.

Her heart bounded at the prospect of contest. Howard’s indifference chilled her, his cruelty never. Her courage rose to life. It is life. Anything but negation. Pain is life if intense, anything, only not stasis. I do pay too much! thought Howard with deep vexation. Why these domestic topics! Money was a nuisance. She knew he was poor just at this time. He gave her what he had. Why demand a heroic gesture to accompany it? Her face was startling in its unyielding, his was ugly with anger.

“Why, hello, Em! When did you get back? You’re a nice one not to let your friends know where you are! Why don’t you write a fellah when you go away? How come you do like you do! Where’s Les? Good evening, Mr. Story.”

Em and Howard had been too intent on their animosities to notice the approach of Tit Miller. He made a round graceful gesture with his hat as he reached their table.

Toby was with him.

Em was obviously discomposed.

“Les is in Chicago,” she said evasively.

“Hello, dear thing.” Toby smiled amorously and his eyes misted. “Mr. Story.” He nodded slowly to Howard. “Can we horn in on your tête-à-tête?”

Tit had already seated himself without waiting for an invitation. Both glanced curiously at Em and Howard, whose attitude of domestic altercation had convicted them of intimacy far more unanswerably than a blatant love-passage could possibly have done. Em smiled recklessly.

“Why, of course, children. Come and join our happy family party!”

Howard forced a wry smile. He despised Em’s friends. She will encourage anything, if enough adulation goes with it, he thought contemptuously.

When Tit Miller’s weak fear of those stronger than himself was sufficiently disarmed, he could be a charming unintellectual companion, full of nonsense and quaint antics which had little relation to the esthetic solemnity that annoyed and disgusted strangers. But he was inclined to malicious revenge where his vanity was hurt. And Em’s mood of heedlessness welcomed the signs of antagonism which Howard now showed toward him. She secretly did not care if Tit told. She hoped he would. Howard should acknowledge her. I don’t care for anything.

“You two people look rather glum,” remarked Toby. He was sensitive as to himself, but his intellectualizations about others were just crude enough to miss the fine points of every situation.

“We were just in the midst of a friendly argument.” Howard’s voice was faultlessly careless.

“A friendly quarrel, you mean!” exclaimed Em defiantly. She did not despise diplomacy, she was afraid of it. Anything clean-cut—even a wound. They’re my friends, anyway.

“Maybe Mr. Story’s jealous of your honorable mention,” Tit suggested elaborately.

“That’s it. You’re clever, Mr. Miller.” Howard’s amusement was sinister.

“I am!” Tit replied, with a rather blank flourish of his tasteful hand.

“You ought to have honorable mention for just being, dear girl,” said Toby unctuously, touching her arm with his childish fingers.

“If you will all excuse me, I must go.” Howard spoke insolently, warning in his green eyes.

Em could have let him go, had he been bored. But his malignity called to something in her. A natural delight in hating was alive. She rose uninvited.

“Well, good-by, kittens.” She smiled with bravado and anticipation.

“Where are you living now?” Toby asked fervidly.

Em laughed nervously and glanced at Howard, who was paying their bill.

“We—” she began and stopped. “I’ll look you both up.” She left her toast and milk untouched and followed Howard out of the restaurant. “What is the matter with you?” she asked rashly as she fell into step with him along the dim pavement where the light seemed to dissolve here and there and make glowing stains on the purple night.

“I don’t intend to discuss it in the street.”

Her face was flushed and exultant. She must feel that she was alive, even by pressure and strain.

“Isn’t Tit cute and ridiculous?”

“Very! Charming lyric note!” Howard’s sarcasm was vindictive.

Em was preparing her resources. There was wisdom in forcing Howard to defend himself. Isn’t it childish? But ignoring things is dying while you’re alive. If only big things were alive too—Her stride showed something like exaltation as she walked beside him.

“And Toby is a dear.”

“He’s an erotic fish,” said Howard savagely.

They had reached the apartment. Em lifted her head gallantly as they entered the door. What do I want with her? Howard thought. He could not cope with her! It depressed him that he needed anyone. It was unpleasant to feel that her presence helped him to believe in himself.

Chapter III

Diluting the Needs of Man

“Knowledge is not our proper Happiness. Whoever will in the least attend to the thing will see that it is the gaining, not the having, of it, which is the entertainment of the mind.”

Bishop Butler—(Sermon XV)

1

A friendly morning. Howard’s apartment looked its warmest in the copious diffused light that flowed all around and through the quiet rooms. The over-restraint was less emphasized in the soft intimate radiance that seemed specially made for human use and comfort. In the living-room the subdued exquisite colors of the two Japanese prints glowed gently against the gray that was no longer somber but silvery and alive, and the beautiful simplified exaggerations of the figure in the Matisse etching were more familiar and believable.

Howard, in a dark dressing-gown, moved silently about the flat. Without warning he opened the door to Em’s room and thrust in his head. Em was awake. He came and sat on the edge of her bed. She lay prone, her slender arms above the bed-clothes, her thick gleaming hair spread out over the pillow like a rich tapestry. Her high small breasts stood hard and round under the covers.

She did not resist the reality of his approach. A soft pink tinged her cheeks, grateful for his seeking. Clutching at life, loving surprise, her eyes sought his and her lips parted. He bent over her and covered her mouth with his own. She forgot that his belief was only in self-expression. He had come. Joy in being needed. She wanted to be destroyed for his need. She gave, obliterated in being.

Howard always left her psychically unappeased. The opposition of his egotism summoned her, only to retreat within itself. Now he raised himself on his elbow and scanned her face. She was yet breathing rapidly from emotion and her eyes were wide and still. He avoided her drinking eyes.

“Em, you’re a beautiful object when you’re aroused,” he said reflectively. His thin features and light green-brown eyes glowed with esthetic satisfaction. “Love is an artistic discovery.” He tried to think of her only as this. He wanted to escape what seemed to him the moral distortion of life.

At times she felt that his gaze saw through her clothes, and at such times she became happy for a moment; but now his obliviousness to the personal element in their experience degraded her to herself.

“Don’t look at me without seeing me,” she whispered.

Howard frowned. He wished her desire fixed on him, resented her private emotions and responses. When she spoke like this she seemed less beautiful to him. He could not bear any ugliness in others. Their defects made him think of his own inadequacies. As a man who was primarily an artist, he refused to be responsible for himself.

“I’m analyzing love.” His detachment prevailed. “Men and women should come together for a perfect moment and then part forever. That would be the only poetical love affair.”

“Howard!” Em frowned also.

“The memory might endure. The love won’t—that’s an illusion. Only something completed is beautiful.”

Em drew slightly away from him and he sat up.

“Nothing completed is ever beautiful. It’s dead,” she said quickly. “You’re afraid of everything that’s alive.” Her cheeks glowed.

Howard studied her unmoved. He tried to convince himself that Em was too much the woman ever to achieve the artist’s detachment. He enjoyed his implacableness toward her, the severity of his moral contempt for himself. Em was alone. When I feel, he’s only curious, she thought bitterly.

“Cowardice is admirable in the lover,” he returned slowly. “Moral courage becomes the solitary. Your artistic perceptions all go into painting, Em.”

“I don’t see how you can simplify life like that, Howard.” Emotionally formulated, she thought, just as Les is intellectually. “Physical intimacy is too big. It’s weakness—so it’s moral. It’s by touching that we exist.”

Howard hated Em’s concrete personalness because it intruded into his own type of sensual mood. He needed her for a chorus to his own sensations, not to be occupied at the same time with her excitement. He had never allowed himself to face any conception of human obligations. Life aside from art was distasteful to him. When Em was most the woman he despised her, but there was a hardness and courage in her painting that he envied. He attempted to disassociate her personality from her work. It left him confused. He rose and lighted a cigarette.

“Both of us care only for ourselves,” he returned irritably. “Why blur things? That’s the trouble with you moderns, even in art.”

Em was sitting up in bed now, her chin in her hands. Her hair fell in a cloud about her.

“There’s something more—” she began earnestly.

“Pooh! Romantic twaddle—woman a burnt offering on the altar of man’s lust!”

Em’s eyes flashed.

“Howard, you’re unjust—”

His hawk face hardened.

“It’s a crime to be just to you,” he said. I don’t count, she thought, sick and angry. Always showing desire for me, and then this—Les at least—“You’ve been spoiled by Drane’s incense-burning,” Howard added mercilessly.

2

Howard was away two days. Em had now no money of her own, and ate insufficiently. She was nervous. Intellectually she did not blame him, but something deep down in her did. About seven o’clock in the evening the latch clicked and he let himself into the apartment. Em was sitting silent in the soft dusk. Amid the imperfect obscurity of the twilight objects were vague and unsubstantial. Howard’s movements were rapid and decisive.

“Hello, disembodied spirit! What about dinner?” He wanted to forget the tensions and unpleasantnesses which had separated them.

“I’ve had something,” she replied.

“You look like a picture by Bonnard.” Howard approached and seized her in his arms. There was about him an air of aliveness and satisfaction that compelled. His unmoved artistic analyses of Em’s states of suffering or pleasure never extended to himself. When he was undergoing pain he was oblivious to everybody, enwrapped in an emotional preoccupation that admitted no possibility of examination. When his desire was aroused Em’s impulses were unnoticed. Now she was far away. He kissed her passionately and unknowingly. When she allowed him, he experienced her as an impersonal beauty, and his eyes were dim and bright with an almost religious intensity. “What were you thinking about, Em?”

“You.”

Howard felt concretely, but was carried by generalities. At this moment he was lost in himself. His hands were upon her.

“You’d better think about me!”

She shrank from his breath on her face. I’m forgotten, she thought. A shiver ran through her body.

“Don’t, Howard.” She pushed him away. In the deepening darkness she could distinguish the greenish glitter of his eyes, the bitterness of his lips. Her unwillingness aroused him. He crushed her in his arms. Her flesh hurt. I will not be snatched. She thrust out with all her strength and struggled free. They stood up, facing each other in the gloom.

“You’re becoming very sophisticated, Em,” he protested, vexation in his tone. “You would delight a voluptuary.”

The appraisal humiliated her more than his disregard. She stood erect, voice opposing.

“I’m human at least.”

Howard’s raptness had passed.

“I’d rather be sophisticated,” he gibed.

“Sophistication is like breeding,” she said coldly. “You’ve got to forget it to have it.”

He always felt that her emotional nakedness was vulnerable, but her infrequent mental flashes put him on the defensive. He shrank where he could not invade.

“And so I haven’t any?”

“You can see others cruelly enough, Howard, but you never see yourself.”

“Are you going to dinner?”

“No,” she rejoined. She turned on the light and picked up a book.

He took up his hat and stick and went out.

3

Howard returned almost at once. Em looked up in surprise as he unlocked and swung the door open. He was manifestly changed in mien, and she gazed at him curiously. In his hand was a letter with a Paris postmark.

“I forgot a portfolio I want,” he said defensively. He stood more upright than usual but turned his hat over and over in his hands, and his glance was placating.

Em was disarmed by his awkwardness. The fact of his coming back meant something to her. He looks like a little boy!

“Is it this one?” She held up a leather case.

He stretched out a hand without looking.

“Thank you.” Their eyes met. “I found a letter from Algeria in the mail-box.”

“Yes?” Em smiled slightly.

“She says that—”

“What does she say?” Em asked with frank interest.

Howard drew a long breath.

“Well, that—I might as well read it, I suppose—” His hat fell unnoticed from his hand.

“Please do,” said Em excitedly.

Howard sank into a chair and drew the letter from its envelope. Em drew her own chair nearer and leaned her elbows on the table between them.

“‘O Dearestie—’ You know she talks like that,” Howard interpolated glibly. “‘I’ve just had a tea (for artists and others) and Félicien Le Gros brought Wiegand (!) and of course I showed him your etchings, and he said quite spontaneously that they were not only MASTERLY (définitif) as to technique but showed CHARMING mood as well. So now go and crow over unfriendly New York. I hope to—’ That’s all about me—my things.” He looked up quickly at Em, his eyes exultant and his pale cheeks slightly flushed.

The pathos in his elation over a word of praise made Em warm. His poor etchings! That’s what makes him so cruel. Any little scrap of commendation from Europe. This was really nothing. She thought of her own elation over Lepelletier’s telegram. She looked at Howard almost compassionately.

“Won’t you take me to dinner after all, Howard?”

“Sure,” he agreed comfortably.

On the way to a familiar restaurant they met Pierre Gouvain. Howard greeted him warmly.

“Won’t you go to dinner with us?”

“Wiz plaisir.” Gouvain’s eyes drank Em’s profile. She turned to him as Howard led the way into the restaurant.

“Who is Wiegand?” she asked.

Gouvain smiled charmingly.

“Oh, he iss one French etcher, fery good of ze sécond rang, and much amateur, of weemen.”

A cheerful waiter bustled forward. Their favorite table was empty. Howard was gay during dinner.

“I heard from Algeria today, Gouvain.”

“You haf? What does she do?”

“Why, she seems to spend her time boring people with my stuff.”

“Read what she says, Howard,” begged Em kindly.

“Oh—”

“I am fery interest,” vowed Gouvain earnestly. Howard read the extract. “It iss verité, ze etchings of technique are wonder, and haf ze mood,” agreed Gouvain generously.

Howard smiled contentedly. He did not notice Gouvain’s ardent eyes seeking Em’s. Neither did Em. I understand him, she thought. He’s only an artist, and he can’t be one. She felt that Howard had been made little and dear to her again. At the restaurant door they said a cordial good-by to Gouvain.

Howard looked down at Em.

“Shall we go back to the apartment?”

“Yes,” she whispered, putting her arm through his.

Her look of longing revived his contempt. He was in the mood which his timidity seldom allowed him, and believed in himself. For the instant he was the great artist and Em, primarily woman, was outside his life. He encouraged the profoundness of his momentary illusion, knowing unadmittedly that it could not last. He wanted the sweetness of condescending to Em. His gentleness did not spare her. She was one of many. Em felt something vaguely unpleasant in his amorousness. She had come no nearer success with Howard—not so near as with Les. I must have someone, she thought. Em was discouraged. I’m frightened.

Chapter IV

The Sleepwalker

“A handless man a letter did write,
A dumb dictated it word for word:
The person who read it had lost his sight,
And deaf was he who listened and heard.”

George Borrow—“The Bible in Spain”

1

Sleet and snow made Em feel apart and cheerless. She rose late and put on her oldest clothes, garments she had worn before she knew Howard. Without yet saying it to herself she knew she was going to talk to her friends whom she had so long neglected. She prepared, and sat down alone to her coffee and toast: ate with her hat on, her cloak on a chair near her. She felt cold, unreal—alien. She did not quite understand the instinct that had kept her away from her own. It was not that, even before the incident with Tit Miller and Toby in the restaurant, Howard had refused to have anything to do with Em’s circle.

“Your dancer friend moves like a blind snake,” he had said spitefully.

“But he’s not the only friend I have, Howard.”

“And the technique of seduction your Toby person employs would nauseate a prostitute.”

“They’re all sincere and lovable dears!” she had declared with unreasoning emotion.

“I don’t care for a retinue of lovable nonentities. You require them because they adore docilely and don’t compete or criticize. A few honest peers would be good for you.”

Hostile silence had ensued. Em had cut herself off from his friends, and now hers were passing. He wants me to lose them, she thought this morning, go back to them after he’s through with me! I won’t drive them away. Putting it into words had not quite revealed her need to herself, but she finished her breakfast and went out into the storm.

Genevieve still lived on the third floor of the ancient tenement, and Em rang the door-bell three times. A window was opened above her and Stuart peered out.

“Why, hello, Em!” he called in surprise. The window closed with a bang and he ran down and admitted her. He preceded her up the stairs. “Where have you been keeping yourself?” He turned his pale regular profile, with its prominent chin, toward her as he spoke, but his kind bored eyes did not meet hers.

“I’ve come to see you,” she replied fervently.

“I see you have!”

Stuart was in the habit of lounging when at rest, and now he walked before her with a stoop. He opened a door. Genevieve was working at a commercial drawing. Mark Leighter slouched his ungainly length on the couch. There was Blanche Dixon. Also a plump young Jewess with shining black hair and faint dark down on her upper lip.

“Hello,” said Em, rather timidly now.

“Hello!” Blanche heartily and Mark with gentle kindness. Blanche rose and kissed Em boisterously.

Genevieve did not move.

“We heard from Tit and Toby that you had been in town some time.” Genevieve’s voice and phrasing were as precise as she alone could make them.

“Do you know, Mark, that John said to me last night. ‘Where is your friend Miss Tyler?’ and I said—” Blanche seated herself beside Mark and, while he smoked successive cigarettes, continued a soliloquy that was both audible and confidential. Mark, with his negative submission, was her especial outlet. She only asked not to be repulsed.

The Jewish girl had remained unnoticed.

“Emily, this is Cicely Frank,” Stuart said rather awkwardly at last.

Em responded to the introduction and then slowly approached Genevieve’s chair.

“I’ve come to tell you something, Jen.” She seated herself on the floor beside her friend. “I’m living with Howard Story.” Genevieve glanced nervously at Cicely and murmured to Em, but Em would not be deterred. “I’m not going to sneak any longer, Jen. Anybody can know it who wants to.” She looked around defiantly.

The surprise had not died out of Genevieve’s eyes. She bent over Em. Her lips trembled a little.

“But what about Les?” she whispered.

Em did not lower her voice.

“I’m not married to Les!” There was silence. Stuart frowned gloomily. Mark smiled affectionately at Em. Even Blanche was speechless. Cicely Frank looked steadfastly at her own hands. Em was saying to herself, They’re mine again! I’m glad I have—But beneath her thoughts was a deep relief in confessing Howard—a lust for release. She had forgotten that it would hurt Les. I won’t be alone. I won’t. Her fear of being isolated from her associations, her resentment of Howard’s caution! All were looking at her kindly again. The surprise and affront of her going away without telling them, her avoidance of them since her return—all was forgotten. I love them! “I’m going to tell everybody Howard and I were in Europe together.” She did not realize that her vanity was healed by the feeling that she was betraying both Howard and herself. I’m with them again, she said to herself.

Genevieve’s voice had almost its old affectionate note.

“We thought you were in Chicago with Les,” she said quietly but a little stiffly, smoothing Em’s hair with her hand. “We wondered why neither of you wrote. And when Tit and Toby saw you—”

“Yes, Em, I said to John only last week, ‘John, not a soul has heard a word from Em Tyler and Les Drane and we all—’” No one in desperation ever insulted Blanche, her good intentions were so much in evidence and her benevolence so obviously genuine.

Mark’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he continued to smile.

“We understand, Em,” he said in a trembling voice.

“I’m going to make coffee for everybody.” Stuart rose suddenly and stalked unsteadily toward the little kitchen. As he passed Em she seized his hand and kissed it. Stuart had been emotional, for him.

It seemed like old times. The past devoted intimacy returned. Em’s thin face grew tranquil. There’s somebody, even if Howard doesn’t—At last she rose to go.

“I’m so glad to know you. I admire your work so much,” said Cicely rather timidly.

Em was smiling like her former self.

“Good-by, dears!” She kissed her fingers to them.

As the door closed after her, Genevieve, with the emptied coffee cups, followed Stuart into the kitchen.

“I’m worried about Les,” she said gravely. “I hate women! I’m fond of Em, but in some ways she’s just like all the others—myself included of course.”

2

Resenting Howard’s secrecy more and more, Em developed a passion for confessing their relation. All kinds of people, people not interested. I wonder what there is in me that does it. Am I wrong somewhere in me? She hunted up Tit and Toby. They were eating chop suey that Toby had made in his room—a big garret crowded with laboratory apparatus. A tumbled bed was in one corner. A fine piano laden with dust and scattered sheets of music. They admitted her enthusiastically, and Em sat down on a rachitic chair while Toby laid out an extra plate.

Tit had a mind adapted to ingenious subtleties, but incapable of any simple fundamental impression. When he was at his worst he was deliberately obnoxious. After they had drawn up to the table again, he bent his flat almost negroid head toward her, eyes peering through thick glasses, an oblivious smile on his curved beautifully red lips.

“I no more liking that Howard gent you introduced us to, Em,” he joked, snickering at her inanely. “See! The finger of scorn!” He pointed a long narrow finger close to her face.

She sprang from her chair.

“If you have no more insight than a Hottentot I wish you’d go,” she flared, her eyes blazing.

Tit was perturbed but he was also extremely egotistical, and obstinate. He had always resented Les, and took a secret pleasure in the unfaithfulness Em had never confessed to him.

“I may have quite as much insight as some of your more wooden-minded friends, Em,” he retorted sullenly, his near-sighted eyes spiteful. “What you allowed us to infer the other night at the restaurant was that the whole thing was a light affair. You spoke about it lightly enough. Nobody made you leave Les. You followed your own taste in the matter. If you wanted a cosmic pathos to envelop the circumstance you might have indicated it. As a matter of fact there’s been nasty gossip about you and I’m the one who tried to put a stop to it. I—”

Em was implacable.

“If you don’t go, I shall.”

With an evil sweeping gesture, his eyes filled with tears, Tit seized his hat and went.

Toby’s eyes rested on Em with moist sympathy. He had never dared aspire to her before, but the feeling that she had thrown herself away on Howard made him stealthily avid in his attentions. Em regarded Toby affectionately, but with complete understanding. He leaned toward her.

“Dear girl, you know that I—” A loud knock sounded on the door. Toby drew back and his mouth was petulant. “Damn!” he ejaculated with genuine zeal.

Reluctantly he opened the door and his irritated peering gaze discovered Michael, who stepped buoyantly into the room. Michael was devoted to a conception of democracy which was contradicted by everything in his temperament and appearance.

“Why, hello, Em!” he exclaimed in a pleased voice. “Jen told me you were in town. Where are you staying?”

“With Howard Story. I’ve just been telling Toby and Tit.”

“I hoped—” Michael’s eyes were passionately commiserating. “It’s your own business, Em. We all love you and Les both—no matter—what—” He dragged out the last words with a painful effort, and immediately changed the subject.

3

It was late. Michael’s appearance had made a formal friendly group of three and they had chatted kindly. Dusk came before they realized it. Michael looked at his watch.

“Let’s go to Esther’s for dinner.”

“All right.” Em agreed instantly. Unnoticed in her lay a silent hope that she would see some of Howard’s friends.

Toby acquiesced wearily. “I’ll go, but I can’t eat anything.”

At Esther’s Em without hesitation approached a table occupied by Carmen Stubbs and her group.

“Hello, dearie,” called Carmen’s husky dissipated voice.

Em paused intrepidly while Michael and Toby went forward and seated themselves in a distant corner of the room, Gouvain turned his fine dark eyes to her. Little Stieg caressed his mustache and imperial preparatory to violent speech. The Hungry Soul shifted her raptorial glance from one man to another, deciding on her prey. Tanaka smiled obscurely. Mitra’s eyes bent on his plate. Pale little Celia St. John’s open-eyed demureness was impartial to all. There was a shower of greetings. Then Carmen spoke indulgently.

“I suppose you don’t know where Howard is these days? I haven’t seen him for a week.”

“I presume he’s at home,” replied Em quietly.

“Whose home?” asked Celia caressingly.

“Ours,” said Em. “You know we’re living together now.”

Mitra let slip a poisonous glance at Celia’s innocent face. Tanaka’s smile did not change. A wounded look in Gouvain’s eyes. The others stared at Em with frank curiosity. Even little Stieg said nothing.

“We knew you were, child,” Carmen returned with throaty casualness.

“Well, good-by,” said Em valiantly. “I mustn’t leave my friends any longer.”

“Bye-bye, dearie,” answered Carmen, speaking for all with raucous benevolence.

During dinner (in the intervals of Stieg’s volleys of ex cathedra pronouncements, and the probings of the Hungry Soul’s psychoanalytic vocal tentacles, which floated to her) Em was steadied by noting the whispered colloquies at Carmen’s table. Em was defiant and strong. I have declared. I’m not ashamed—even of leaving Les. I’m not ashamed!

“We’ll take you home, Em,” Michael proposed when they had finished coffee and cigarettes.

“Fine!” Em was rehabilitating herself. Michael’s offer was a symbol. I can live unconcealed. She felt clean. She was almost gay as she led the way out of the small food-smelling room into the cold bright darkness of the animate street.

Michael and Toby left her at her door. As she slowly climbed to the apartment Howard ran up the stairs and overtook her.

“Hello! Where have you been? I was here most of the afternoon.”

“I’ve been out with friends,” Em answered abstractedly.

The janitress was in the hall, a parcel in her hand. She did not observe Howard ascending behind Em.

“Here’s a package for your husband,” the woman began. “Oh, here he is—”

“He’s not my husband,” Em almost snapped.

The janitress gasped.

Howard’s eyes were furious as Em unlocked the door and preceded him into the flat. If he could only bring himself to use some brutal word to destroy her! But something withdrew him from the impulse. Fine sense of proportion! Female. This kind of martyrdom—Ennobles our relation to confess it to an Irish janitress! We’ll be evicted next.

“My God, there’s nothing more holy than a sense of humor, Em!” he grated.

Em would not answer. Damn the girl, anyway!

Chapter V

The Tamers

“I smiled at him, and looked pleasantly, and beckoned to him to come still nearer. At length he came close to me, and then he kneeled down again, kissed the ground, and laid his head upon the ground, and taking me by the foot, set my foot upon his head: this, it seems, was in token of swearing to be my slave forever. I took him up and made much of him, and encouraged him all I could.”

Daniel Defoe—“Robinson Crusoe”

1

The shriveled and grimy park, dead and still under the winter sunlight. Branches of trees stiffened and distorted with the cold, twigs like upturned rootlets. The bright sky belonged to another land.

Howard and Em were walking in the park.

Em in a coarse woven red-brown cape and tam-o’-shanter, hair shading into her cap. Her eyes saw without looking. The old scene brought her an unworded pain. Les seemed part of the park. The dead tree and the pool. Together, so long ago—She had never gone back to Jane Street. When her clothes and easel were moved to Howard’s she had sent Les the key—with no letter. The park had remained. Their path, hers and Les’s. Howard was walking beside her, hunched like a crane in his long heavy coat with its big collar, narrow face under golf cap. Les had unity of body. Les was—

Howard’s voice startled her.

“Has Drane settled in Chicago?”

“I don’t know.” Em glanced keenly at Howard. Did he see my thoughts?

“Don’t you ever communicate with him?”

“No.” What has kept me? Why? Will this go on—Then anger came. “Is a report expected on all I do or don’t do?”

Howard frowned slightly.

“No, but I wondered. He may turn up here in New York some of these days.”

“What if he does?” She spoke with coldness.

“Well, it wouldn’t be very—”

Em broke in almost harshly.

“I don’t see how you are concerned, whether he does or doesn’t.”

Howard’s lips tightened.

“I beg pardon for presuming to mention him. I didn’t know that his name was interdicted.”

An undefined perception checked Em in her unrecognized desire for enmity between the two men.

“Why shouldn’t he come if he wants to, Howard?” Her voice was reasonable, almost beseeching. Half-acknowledged determinations.

“I stand aside,” Howard replied bitterly.

Em’s restraint dissipated.

“I should love to see him!” she cried impetuously, her face working. “Why shouldn’t I? He’s a lovely person, unselfish and—”

“Unselfishness is trading services,” Howard interrupted cuttingly.

She scarcely heard him.

“And strong and—” Her breathing was agitated.

“It isn’t possible to be strong in a relation,” he said carefully. “But I congratulate you on your ex-ideal. I had no notion of how much he still obsessed you.” Howard wanted to be indifferent to Em’s reverence for Les. Anyone who inspired reverence—faugh!

Each striving to conquer the other. Em stopped on the path and looked fixedly at Howard. Is he jealous? The thought solaced her. I’ve hurt them both. She felt kinder toward them both, almost maternal.

“Howard, why should you feel this way? Les always spoke so generously of you—”

“I don’t thank him for an unsolicited condescension,” Howard rejoined testily. “But I suppose he enjoyed the grand gesture.”

Em’s cheeks flushed.

“Well, you might thank him!” she burst out. “He’s big enough. Les isn’t complacent.”

“You should have stayed with him.” Howard’s voice trembled. He became obvious when attacked. He was brilliant only when tearing down.

Em turned on him with suppressed enmity.

“I know I should,” she said passionately.

Howard had begun to realize that he might lose Em, but he could not forbear to dare her.

“It’s not too late to go back to him,” he taunted coolly. He almost wanted her to leave him. He could be sure of his superiority only when they were apart.

Turning suddenly he left her alone on the path.

2

Howard had begun to avoid his friends.

None of them except Celia had spoken to him of Em’s indiscretion, but he could not endure their smiles. It was not enough that he was not ashamed of Em, not ashamed of himself. He could bear to see no one but Celia. Celia’s eyes were naked against his, like a body touching his body. Celia had no shame. Still he kept away even from her, began to stay at home, locked in his apartment. Em was not always there. But several whom he ran into unavoidably had lightly hinted that he was growing uxorious. Howard feared only light things. Em is banal in her intensity, he told himself. Yet he would not go out more. His vanity was inverting: he wished to defy himself.

A dreary afternoon. The gray walls were grayer. Em was in her bedroom. She never worked any more. One partly finished canvas had lasted for a month. Her body was growing gaunt, her face narrower. She came out, started as she saw Howard, cheek in hand, seated idly by the table.

“What’s the matter, Howard?”

He did not raise his eyes.

“How should I know? It’s hard enough to decide what’s the matter with other people, let alone myself.”

Em drew near and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Can’t you tell me what it is?”

The touch of her hand made him respond. He wanted to strike her. Since he could not he relaxed to her sympathy.

“I suppose it’s because I’m not a strong character.” Howard’s pride was never fixed on virility.

Em’s tenderness was drawn by submission. She bent over him and laid her cheek to his.

“I’m not a strong character either, Howard.”

He feared to succumb.

“You don’t need to be, Em.” He tried to blame her for her artistic success.

“Neither do you, dear.” He started to reply and she placed her fingers over his lips. “Let’s just be, Howard, and not talk about things.” Her voice was wistful.

He could not bear any more of this. He wished blindly to destroy his recognition of his human dependence.

“I haven’t made you the effigy of a class.”

Em straightened up.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Howard.”

“You substitute me for everyone who hurts you.”

She walked to the other side of the table and sat down.

“No more than you, Howard. That’s the kind of people we are: that’s the way our emotions work. The trouble is you won’t admit it.”

“We’re not the same kind of people,” he said impatiently. “You think you’re noble because you’re remorseless in things that kill others, and you despise me because I’m selfish in matters that hurt no one. All your instincts are infallible and all mine perverse!”

How like my talks with Les, thought Em. But at least we feel each other. Poor Howard’s vanity. She felt sad for him. Yet the weaker he showed himself the more certain she, in her pity for him, became.

“Let’s not tear each other,” she replied gently. “If we can’t have affection—” I’m talking like Les now. I wonder if—

“Affection is feeding on someone else,” Howard interrupted bitterly. “But you’re not even affectionate.”

Her face flushed.

“I am!” she cried. “I am!”

“You’re not. All you want is to bait me whenever you need crisis, and then clear it up with a little drama.”

Em rose angrily.

“And all you want is—”

“Somebody to be half human,” he broke in vindictively. “I’m not in Drane’s class as a strong man.”

3

Em paced her room in the darkness.

I want to live. I must know I’m alive. How can I live alone? I must touch something!

She sobbed. She moved her hands wildly.

Keep death away from me! Life is so little! All I want—all I want—

She sank to the floor. She lay weeping without tears. That was the end of everything—just this dullness. She fancied with horror that it made no difference to her how things went on.

4

Howard was trying to be gentler. Em’s almost ill look made him talk sociably. Since his letter from Algeria he had referred to her several times. To Em it seemed that he was always invoking Algeria. Why does she bother me?

“I think Algeria will be back in New York before long,” he said suddenly one night after they had gone to bed.

When Howard had first begun to live with Em he had written Algeria a letter which seemed to end the phase of his intimacy with her. But he was allowing it to revive. Algeria was not the effacing kind. Howard himself was never true to any relationship. He never admitted for himself the necessity of selection.

“I don’t care.” Em yawned as she replied. She felt that Howard should be interested in her.

“You’ll like Algeria, Em.”

“I shan’t like her.”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen her.” Howard wished he had not spoken of Algeria, but he would not desist.

“I’ve heard enough.” We didn’t come to bed to talk about Miss Westover. Howard’s party—He’s worked over there ever since I came.

“She’s a remarkable woman.” Did he wish to hurt Em with Algeria? He knew that in the beginning he had desired to hurt Algeria with Em.

“She must be. Do all the rest of your friends lie awake nights raving about her?”

“I believe you’re jealous of her.” Howard laughed as he took Em in his arms. She pushed him from her. She could not bear to have him with her while he was thinking of Algeria. Why did Algeria mean anything? Let him go to her! Em rose and put on her slippers and kimono. “Where are you going, Em?” said Howard angrily.

“To sleep in the other room.”

“Do!” he retorted. There was a veiled threat in his tone but he felt a novel guiltiness he could not explain.

Em paused at the doorway.

“I don’t want to disturb your thoughts.”

He did not reply. When she awoke next morning he was gone.

Chapter VI

Webs

“Pleasure drives out Pain: and because Pain is felt in excess men pursue Pleasure in excess.

“The attempted answer of Speusippus ‘that Pleasure may be opposed and yet not contrary to Pain …’ will not hold: for he cannot say that Pleasure is identical with evil of any kind.”

“The Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle”
(Trans. D. P. Chase)

1

All the negativeness of Howard’s personal egotism was becoming positive on the artistic side.

He rather enjoyed self-contempt, dismissing himself on the plane of human relations. His frank lack of moral pride relieved his vanity from ethical obligation. It allowed him not only to do what he liked, but also eased him from the inner necessity to make it up to himself. Nevertheless he was really unhappy. This unhappiness, while chiefly with himself, was not merely a vague disappointment and dissatisfaction. He needed for Em to worship him more, not as an individual, for he had a genuine pleasure in confessing his faults, but as an artist. He longed for it. Her own artistic achievement was unanswerable, and therefore some reversal of her attitude became requisite. She did not condemn but ignored his art. So, still thirsting for her recognition, he unconsciously shifted his hope to the more equal field of the personal emulations that he despised.

Howard’s increasing absences at night bothered Em. It was not a conventional grievance. Freedom was her god. Her philosophy of conduct did not permit her to object to any philandering he might see fit to practice. One of her hostilities toward Les had grown from the feeling that he forced himself to ignore all other relations except his relation to her. Sacrifice oppressed her. But Howard had come gradually to neglect her unbearably. Since her rush of confession to her friends and his, she saw almost no one. Something in her needed contact. There was panic in the world.

Darkness. It was nearly midnight. The bell rang. Em had sat for hours almost motionless in a big chair. She sprang up with unconcealed eagerness and opened the door. Her thin face hectic. It was Mitra. He entered silently. He looked first at her and then around the apartment. She was alone. He exclaimed with cheerless delight.

“Elephants!” Em smiled. It was good that someone had come. “I came to walk.” Needless words always seemed to hurt him.

“With me?”

Mitra nodded. To Em after her evening alone it was a challenge. My trouble is that I’m daunted. She put on her hat and coat and they went down to the street.

“Good!” His voice was secret and remote.

They walked slowly. Em conversed uneasily to her mute companion. It was only when they were passing Algeria’s studio that she realized why. After a few turns in the Square they came back by Algeria’s studio. Howard and Celia were at the door. He was fitting his key in the lock: but Celia saw Mitra and Em.

“It’s after one,” Em said quietly, glancing at her watch. She was holding herself. Mitra’s being with her helped her. “I think I shall go to bed.”

Mitra tried to see her face. He paced silently at her side until they reached the apartment.

“May I come up?”

“No,” said Em kindly.

His dark eyes were lustrous.

“I love you, little white tiger.” He stood motionless before her.

“Don’t, please.” She was still gentle.

“He has—for a long time.”

“That makes no difference.” She held out her hand with an affectionate gesture. Mitra’s silent dramatic complacency was disconcerting to her Anglo-Saxon self-consciousness. She smiled. “Let’s be friends.”

Almost before she spoke he was gone.

2

Em decided against seclusion. She went to lunch at Esther’s the next day. She wore one of her most becoming costumes, a brown hand-woven wool skirt and smock, hat covered with the same material. Her slightly hollowed cheeks were carefully rouged, her eyes alight and unswerving. Howard, Celia and Gouvain were seated at a table that was directly before her as she entered.

Gouvain sprang to his feet and pulled back the vacant chair.

“Zis wass reserve for you!” he exclaimed with his warming smile. His seeking eyes rested happily on hers.

Em returned his smile with decision.

“Hello,” she said in a natural tone to Howard and Celia.

Constraint was reduced to a minimum. The new manners do not yet admit breaches of good form in public. However, Gouvain’s glowing eyes perplexed Em slightly. His eyes no longer considered Howard. She felt surprisingly uncertain. When sex is no longer connected with a beloved person there is no stopping-place. Celia, Mitra and Gouvain seemed a welter of sex. But she was glad Howard was free. I’m enduring for him what Les endured for me. Em was almost happy to be made to feel something about it.

Gouvain talked to her with an air of intimacy. Howard and Celia flippantly discussed art. Celia’s silken indolent voice came to Em.

“A woman with a body like mine doesn’t need to be an artist.”

Em was astonished at the close of the meal when Howard turned to Gouvain.

“Will you take Celia home, Pierre? I’m going to walk along with Em.”

Celia never showed wonder. Gouvain glanced docilely at Em.

“I am enchant.”

On the way to the apartment neither Em nor Howard spoke.

3

Howard and Em could still talk things out, still fight to release, so she clung to him.

From the beginning of their relation he had always been faithful to the secrets of all the women with whom he had had affairs, including a schoolgirl sweetheart of his college days. Thus he possessed a psychic harem from which Em felt he was excluding her. Now they sat down to debate the present situation. Howard had invited this by coming home with Em. He could not convince himself that he was ready to risk losing her, but also he could not desist in his attempt to punish her through Celia. Em’s calmness mystified him. She seemed stronger. Her delicate form seemed more definite and steady. She began the discussion.

“Don’t you feel that we should be frank about things, Howard?”

“By which I suppose you mean for me to be frank.”

“I mean both of us,” she said patiently.

“You’re very frank about Gouvain,” he responded coldly.

“I’m perfectly willing to tell you everything about him and me.”

“And about Mitra,” he added with more heat.

Em crimsoned.

“I can tell you every word I’ve ever said to Mitra.”

“What about the things he’s said to you?” Em was silent. “Hasn’t he made love to you?”

“Yes,” she answered honestly.

“Well, if you let men make love to you without my knowledge, why should I report to you everything I do?” Under the pretext of sharing I’m allowed only the aspects of sex she enjoys!

“I didn’t let him!” exclaimed Em indignantly.

Howard was intoxicated in the thought of her retreat before him. His green eyes shone, his curling lip quivered.

“I presume Drane reported on all the time he spent out of your sight.”

“I never asked—” she began in a choking voice. Her body swayed and she clenched her hands.

“How much has he told you about this girl with the ‘candied’ eyes you fancied so?” Howard was instinctively sowing doubt.

“I know he never—I don’t believe—” Em burst into tears. This suggestion inflicted far more pain than her jealousy of Howard aroused.

Howard was pitiless. He wanted to hold her and yet not relinquish his goad. I’ll use her bombastic idea of duty!

“What you and I need is a little good taste in our relations, Em,” he said with cynical tolerance. “Now Algeria and I, she’s like me in such matters, we never—” He hesitated involuntarily before the sudden anger in Em’s eyes.

He realized that he had made a false step. Em seemed most desirable when she was aroused, but he felt unable to end what he had begun. Before he could continue she burst into a storm of irate words.

“Don’t talk to me! I hate you—you and your Algeria—and that little baby-faced whore—all of you—go away—leave me—” Em stopped for breath. She was frightened at herself, but relieved by her own violence. Her lips still quivered but her gaze disowned him.

Howard’s tone altered.

“Listen, Em—”

“Get away from me!” she cried hoarsely, her eyes dark with bitter abhorrence.

“I shall,” he snarled, striding from the room and slamming the door after him.

As he passed down the stairs he felt ill with depression. He had no regret for Em, but he felt lost. There seemed nothing for him to look forward to. Some great artist to acknowledge his personality! He did not admit greatness in Em, but at least something real—without her, nothing. He recalled bitterly and without gratitude the men and women who admired him: he despised them, with hatred, for the insult of their too easy tribute.

Left alone. Em sank into a chair by the table and buried her face in her arms. Rough sobs grated in her throat, her shoulders heaved jerkily, the muscles of her neck twitched. The gathering darkness at last hid her shivering form.

Book III: Algeria

“Enter Magda, brilliantly dressed, with a large mantle, and a Spanish veil on her head. She embraces Marie.

Magda.—My puss! My little one! How my little one has grown! My pet—my—(kissing her passionately). But what’s the matter? You’re dizzy. Come, sit down. No, no, please sit down. Now. Yes, you must. (Places Marie in an arm-chair.) Dear little hands, dear little hands! (Kneels before her, kissing and stroking her hands.) But they’re rough and red, and my darling is pale. There are rings around her eyes.”

Hermann Sudermann—“Die Heimat”
(Trans. C. E. A. Winslow)

Chapter I

“The Everlasting Return”

“O’er the hill-tops all
Lies gentle rest,
In the tree-tops tall
Thou scarce feelest
One single quivering breath.
E’en the birds are silent now:
Wait, yes wait, for thou
Must, too, soon rest in death.”

W. v. Goethe—“Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”
(Trans. by the author in his fourteenth year)

1

New York. Dizzy ranges of buildings, sluggish sloughs between, whirring moan of human machines, unresting nights spurting fire in puerile designs. Les walked again in his city. Smoke and filth above. Unseen stars lit by unseen acolytes … moon gliding on like a dying swan … Les’s body in motion still bent forward, but not eagerly. He wished for Carl.

Les resigned from the Empire State Trust Company.

“Of course it’s exclusively your affair, Mr. Drane, but perhaps I ought to say that we feel there’s a future for you with us if you cared to stay. Your work in Chicago was unusually—” The Vice President had devoted two costly minutes to Les. “If a reasonable increase in salary now and—”

“I’m afraid I must—” Nose like a rudder! Might be human if—

“Well, you know best. Good day, Mr. Drane, and good luck.” Mr. Sutton turned to the papers before him.

Book reviews, odd jobs and the novel drove Les to a single room in Patchin Place. Some instinct made him treasure the money he had saved in Chicago. Saw no one.

He craved music. New York concerts at a prohibitive price, occasionally even Skriabin, Stravinsky, Leo Ornstein. One night he sat beside a young Jewess. Dark golden eyes.… In the pauses she talked of Ernest Bloch. From experience Les expected her name to be Dorothy or Margaret. It was Cicely. “Oh, yes, I’ve met Miss Tyler—I knew that she and you—”

Cicely lived four doors from him. Another concert. Concerts. Walks on Sunday. Surprises, in and out to tidy his things, mend, curtains made, cozy dinners for two, smoke, quiet talk. Polished black hair. Skin of sweet ivory. Restful breasts. Kind hands.

“Stay tonight—”

“Dear, dear boy, I’d love to be good to you—” Trembling.…

Les thought his life had more peace.

2

It was weeks before Les ran into Howard.

“How are you, Drane?”

“I’m very well.” Les gazed collectedly into Howard’s eluding eyes.

“Wonderful winter weather.”

“Charming,” said Les. He looked sunken down within himself, as though nothing could touch him.

Howard walked thoughtfully toward his apartment. Once he glanced back at Les who moved skillfully on through the crowded street.

Since the scene with Em about Celia and Algeria, Howard had spent more time at home. Neither he nor Em knew just how they remained together. Something held him. Why do I hang to her? Can’t get away? Howard had conceded—almost begged. He astonished himself, I wish she’d paint. Their relation persisted. Some day she will do something great. Em looked wan. He hated pathos worse than he hated dependence. Good Lord! I’m becoming marital.

Celia never endured neglect. There was excellent steel under her velvet voice and she made Howard writhe. One night he had found Mitra at her place.

“I came over to take you to dinner,” Howard had said, seating himself rather nervously.

Mitra had sat staring at the floor.

“Thanks,” Celia had replied languidly. “Mitra is going to cook me some curry at his rooms.”

Howard, rising stiffly:

“I suppose I might as well go on.”

Celia, with indolent impertinence:

“Yes, you’d better run back to Emily. I shall probably stay all night with Mitra.”

As the door had closed after Howard, a whisper from Mitra to Celia:

“Elephants!”

When Howard reached his apartment after having seen Les, Em was out. She had evidently been downstairs to open the mail-box: he found another letter from Algeria lying conspicuously on a table. Algeria was coming to New York! For some time fear had kept him from mentioning her to Em. But with Les in New York and Celia with Mitra, he felt more than ever that he needed Algeria for a weapon. Em’s key rattled in the lock and he put the letter in his pocket.

Em entered with rather jerky, fidgety movements. As she removed her hat and coat her face and figure appeared almost pitifully thin and frail. Howard did not look up.

“Hello, Howard,” she said in a low voice. He made no reply. “Have you been in long?”

“No.”

“I just ran across a friend of yours,” she pursued restlessly.

“I just ran across a friend of yours.”

“Who?” asked Em quickly, hesitating in the removal of her coat.

“Mr. Drane.” Howard’s tone was almost mocking, but she did not notice it. He would not admit his own uneasiness.

“What! Les? Is he here? Where did you see him?” Em’s cheeks had grown white and the spots of rouge on them appeared more unnatural than ever. She twisted her handkerchief nervously in her hands and her eyes searched Howard’s face eagerly.

Howard had determined to be magnanimous toward Les, but the longing in Em repulsed him. He spoke sharply.

“I saw him on the street.”

“Was he well? How long has he been in New York?” Em’s excitement became more and more visible with every word. Howard’s sense of inexplicable injury grew.

“He did inform me that he was in good health. I didn’t ask how long he has been in the city. I wasn’t particularly interested.”

Tears started to Em’s eyes. She did not oppose pain that was related to Les.

“Oh, Howard! How can you, after he has been so lovely about everything! Didn’t you ask him to come and see us?” Em barely knew what she was saying. “Where is he staying?”

Howard’s lip curled.

“I certainly did not invite him to visit us, and don’t know where he is sojourning.”

Em scarcely heard him. She was putting on her hat and coat again. Howard had no intention or desire to prevent her from seeing Les, no liking for the conventional attitude, but it wounded him to be forgotten. If, at the news of Les’s proximity, she had turned to him he could easily have been noble about it. He thought of Celia, then of Algeria. He would stay that night at Algeria’s studio. Algeria would return soon. He unconsciously imputed to Em’s obliviousness all his desire for infidelity. Without his knowing it she deepened his self-distrust. His face was set. He wanted to chasten her for humiliating him. He felt remorseless toward her.

“Are you going to take your things?” he inquired caustically as she passed by him on her way to the door.

“Don’t, Howard.” Em put her arms around him tremulously. “Please don’t.” It was sweet to her to be hurt for Les. She loved Howard for doing it.

He made no response to her endearment, but she hardly knew it. A rapt look was in her eyes as she left him. Howard was jealous only of what seemed her painless capacity for emotion.

3

Les and Cicely walking across the Square in the thin pale sunshine, Cicely’s dark cheeks mantled with a glow from the cold air. She looked happily at him.

“Isn’t it a lovely day, Les?” Her world was complete. She admired him, however, almost to the point of discomfiture.

A call behind them. Les looked around. Stuart and Genevieve! Les’s world had come back. I must act again.…

“Well, stranger!” Stuart spoke shyly, but gripped Les’s hand hard. He nodded awkwardly to Cicely.

“Hello, Jen.” Les was disconcerted. She is hurt. There must be no display. Jen is good.…

Genevieve had poise.

“How long have you been back?” she demanded before committing herself to any demonstration. “How do you do, Miss—Miss—”

“Cicely Frank,” supplied Les. “She’s been at your house.”

“Miss Frank.” Genevieve bowed distantly. “Yes, I remember you. Michael brought you.”

“I’ve been here some time,” Les admitted, holding out his hand. Genevieve placed hers in it, but her eyes looked into his without forgiveness. She admired Em too much to be jealous of her, but she resented Cicely.

“Have you seen Em?” she asked with cruel solicitude.

Les glanced at Cicely.

“No,” he answered. I should have stayed—I can’t endure.…

“Les, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Reproach was in Genevieve’s face. She ignored the others.

Cicely looked from one to the other of the group.

“Let’s discuss something else,” said Les after a pause.

Genevieve straightened.

“Let’s,” she agreed loftily. Only her eyes showed that she had been wounded. “I gather that you wouldn’t care to come and see us sometime.”

Genevieve had a code of worldliness, and her vanity made her demand some sexual recognition from most of the men she met. But unknown to herself her tendency was toward a morally beautiful idealism. Her affection for Em and Les had aroused this feeling. The sight of Les with Cicely justified it, and revived Genevieve’s antagonism, and distrust of women. By ignoring the conventions she felt that she had defied all moral justifications and could ask no quarter. As she did not demand fidelity from any man as her moral right, she had to command it by her physical attractions. This feeling that her vanity was at bay extended even to her friendships. She was now resentful that she, who had deferred her egotism to Em’s, should have to admit the intrusion of what she thought Les’s inferior preference.

Les glanced again at Cicely, and back at Genevieve.

“I’m sure to come sometime,” he smiled.

Genevieve showed plainly that she was offended.

“Well, we won’t keep you any longer. Good-by, Miss—”

“Frank.” Cicely without malice felt her advantage. She smiled and held out her hand.

Genevieve barely touched it. Stuart smiled dryly, nodded again, and they moved on.

Les and Cicely continued their walk across the Square. I can’t help it—Les did not know he was blaming Cicely for Genevieve’s grudge. I can’t explain. No one can see—If Carl were here.…

“Shall we go home?” Cicely asked timidly.

“No. I want to be alone.” Why did I say that? Hurting her because I’m hurt.…

Tears came to Cicely’s eyes. She turned and walked rapidly from him. Les resumed his unheeded way. I don’t want decision. I can’t stand struggle. Better alone than friendship with—I hate generosity! Just something kind.…

A familiar railing caught his eye. He looked up at his windows, puzzled that he had come home after all.

4

Em went to Jane Street for the first time since she had moved her things away. The once-friendly Polish janitress stared at her suspiciously.

“Mr. Drane went quite a while ago,” she said grudgingly. “He’s somewhere in Patchin Place, I think.” The fat janitress had always liked Les.

Em left on light feet. Scanning intently the cards on door after door in Patchin Place, she rang several bells in succession. A tall surly blond girl answered one.

“Does Mr. Drane live here?” Em was a picture of expectancy.

“Second floor,” replied the girl ungraciously.

Em flew up the stairs. Les opened the door slowly in answer to her repeated knocking. For an instant she saw the small crowded room, the litter of papers on a table, Les’s shoes, a girl’s dress. Then the reality of her surroundings passed.

“Oh, Les!” she cried. “Oh, Les!” She seized him hungrily in her arms and wept in an abandon of joy.

He drew her into the room after a moment and led her to a chair. She was so happy in his presence that she had not noticed his self-conscious response. She gazed at him avidly. Les was only slightly taller than Em, and this surprised her after Howard’s length. His active body, his firm skin, hair dark-sprinkled with gray and slightly wavy at the ends, growing thin on the crown of his head, his wide clean-shaven chin, deep lines from the wing of the nose on each side to a point between the cheek and chin—Les looked older. He’s beautiful. It’s because he has unity of personality, she thought. Dear, dear Les—She could not speak for emotion.

He looked at her anxiously.

“You’ve been ill, Em.” His voice was medicine to her bruised vanity. “You’re thin.”

“Oh, Les, how could you be in New York and not try to see me?” Her tone was too loving for rebuke. She was with him.

“I didn’t know whether—” What is the use? Can’t pain end? She doesn’t know.…

“Nothing can ever make me not want to see you, Les.” She rose and went to him, kissed him lingeringly. “I shall always love you—always—” Her voice broke. She walked to and fro for a moment and then reseated herself. “You look tired, Les.”

“I’m older than you,” he smiled. “Older in body and spirit.… I must tell you something—” He hesitated painfully. “I—I’m—there’s somebody—”

The little pang hardly hurt Em.

“I know,” she said, gazing at him fondly. “That girl with the candid eyes. I’ve seen her since Howard’s party. She’s sweet.” Him loved to have him talking intimately to her. Nothing mattered besides his nearness.

Les showed surprise. His embarrassment was smoothed.

“No. It’s another girl—a Jewess.”

Em laughed affectionately.

“Jews are just like other people, only more so,” she admitted tolerantly.

“She’s been lovely and sympathetic.” Les could talk easily now.

“You dear! I think you’re cute with your love affairs!” She felt gay. They were both really talking about their own comfort in being together again.

“It’s nice of you—” His voice was unsteady.

“Why, Les, I shall love her. I love everyone who is—is—” She could not go on. Her heart was full. She felt close to him—that they understood each other better through frankness than ever before. Something in her sang.

There was a timid noise at the door.

“There she is now, probably.” Les spoke in a subdued tone.

Constraint had descended upon them. Cicely, plump pretty body, well-made clothes, and air of modesty, opened the door hesitatingly and stopped blankly as she saw Em. Cicely was confused—contrite for something she did not understand. Her eyes were deprecating. She glanced apprehensively at Les.

“Come in, Cicely,” he said with kind restraint. How easily things are begun—No one can know.…

Cicely entered and closed the door, Em rebounded to need for strength. She rose and held out her hand.

“Why, I know you! How do you do?”

“Yes,” said Cicely shyly, “I met you at Miss Strang’s.” Then her fear swept away. She could not control her emotion, though she felt that Em might condemn it. She put her arms about Em and kissed her. She was grateful that Em had not taken Les from her. I must be what Les wishes, thought Em, returning the kiss painfully.

Cicely removed her hat and wrap, a little stab in Em’s heart.

“Shall I make tea?”

“Should you like some?” Les asked Em.

“Oh, no, thank you.” She could not drink tea made by Cicely in his room. I must be bigger than this. Marriage. Owning people. Hideous. I won’t. “How did you like Chicago, Les?”

“Not so well as New York.” Suffering without death. Did I think I could bear? Blind in the night.… God—

Cicely was touched by the gentleness of them both. She felt unworthy to love Les. She knew she could worship Em and so prove to herself that there was no need of self-reproach. At parting Em kissed them both. Her body was weak, her heart beating far off. I must be strong.

“Come and see us often, won’t you, please?” Cicely begged, won by Em’s loveliness.

Les was silent.

5

While Les was telling her of Cicely, Em had felt no jealousy. She had even felt her love for Les extending to this girl who had comforted him. Cicely had begun to seem part of herself. But to her own surprise, when she saw Cicely in the room with Les, Em realized that she had been crudely and bodily jealous. She could not explain her feelings that shamed and pained her. She was going home! Talking to herself made it no easier.

“Em!”

“What is it, Les?” She halted and looked around. Only people passing like a battalion. She could have sworn it was Les’s voice.

Em! She knew now.

What is it, Les?

I want you, Em.

Oh, Les, I’m yours.

Em!

What is it, dear Les?

I need you, Em.

Oh, Les, I—

Em! His face was before her. Suddenly it changed to Cicely’s.

Les! Don’t—don’t—

Em!

“Les—” She had spoken aloud again. She stopped. A woman bumped into her. Faces floated by. What is the matter with me? Is my mind—Am I crazy? Perhaps my heart was talking. Oh, Les—Les—

She walked rapidly, almost ran along the street, but the exertion did not numb her suffering. She tried to be detached. Les could not live alone and homeless. But the fact that he was physically with Cicely swept it all away. She felt helplessly that she hated Cicely. No! I pity her. She’s not to blame for loving Les. She can’t understand how fine he is. Em rebelled against Les seeking appreciation from Cicely. I gave him more than that, she thought. I know I did. Em’s vanity was most cruelly wounded because Cicely was intellectually so commonplace. It must have been on account of Cicely’s more exuberant physique that Les wanted her. The defect in me is physical. He didn’t want my body. I’m worn out. This hurt her pride unbearably. She hated her self-pity, that she had to recognize.

She was glad, when she reached the apartment, that Howard was not there.

6

When Em saw Howard at the apartment the next day he was astonished by her demonstrativeness toward him. There was something about it he could not understand. He had thought it was all over. His egotism was pleased.

But she demanded an exaggerated physical response from him. He looked at her with wonder. His desire was weak with hatreds. I can’t. There have been too many things.

“Do you want me, Howard? Am I nice?” Em’s despairing coquetry was ghastly even to herself. She ignored the shame to her dignity. She debased herself in her own eyes to excite him. It must be that I am not unpleasing, she was thinking.

The vision of Les and Cicely in passionate attitudes suddenly swam before her. She sprang up and fled into another room. The memory of Gouvain’s tender eyes rebuked her. I’m not bad, I’m not!

“Where are you going, Em?” Howard was aroused. He rose and went to the door after her. She had locked it in his face. He could hear her sobbing within.

Cicely in innocence had subtly precipitated something new into Em’s attitude toward Howard. But he had not the lust to convince her of herself. She longed for Mitra’s eager licentiousness. I must be desired. Celia! I am no longer a woman.

Em had the jealousy of loneliness. Neither Les nor Howard wants me. If I could die—

Chapter II

Footlights!

“Here is our Drama played, our Farce begun.…
Here our souls speak their mirth and grief and rage—
Satires in silk, light wit, and passion’s heat,
Unspoken pain, hid sorrows, amours fleet
And all the vanities with which we play
Our pose of yester and our real today.”

Hugo von Hofmannsthal—Prologue to Schnitzler’s
“Anatol” (Trans. T. Blackmore)

1

The sword of the sun! It was a bright, piercing day.

Howard was pleasantly excited over the prospect of Algeria’s arrival. His green eyes were softer, almost brown, when he was interested or occupied. Em was gentle before his evident emotion, even though it was for another. It exists, anyway. She felt that until she saw Les again life was only watching others live.

The steamer was not to dock until ten o’clock, but he rose early and shaved and dressed with great care. Thank God, the day was beautiful! Em was kind and maternal toward his eager anticipation. Her jealous agony had passed. Cicely—Les is here again!

“Shouldn’t you like to go, Em?” Howard had asked half-heartedly.

“I don’t think so,” she had replied with a smile.

Although it was only eight o’clock, Howard hurried through his breakfast. At nine he went out. Em spent the day at home, half-expecting his return and musing over his enthusiasm for Algeria. Now that Les was in New York, what Howard felt and did seemed so much less important. She had a vague sense of waiting.

2

It was nearly four o’clock and Howard had not come.

The bell rang. Em opened the door. Genevieve stood in the hall. Her clear eyes were a little hard. Em seized her in a fierce hug.

“Why, Jen, how sweet of you!”

“Are you alone?” asked Genevieve sternly, responding stiffly and almost indignantly to the embrace.

“Yes,” said Em joyfully. “Come in, darling.” Genevieve allowed herself to be led into the room. “I’m so glad to see you!” declared Em boisterously, pushing Genevieve into a chair and kissing her again.

Genevieve remained severe.

“You’ve not shown yourself very anxious—”

Em knelt by her friend.

“Jen—please, Jen; there are—things—”

“There are.” Genevieve softened and she took Em’s hand in hers. “That’s why I’m here. I can’t understand you, Em. If I come here, you know that—”

“I know, Jen.” Em nestled against her. She did not want to hear more.

“How are you and Stuart, Jen?”

“Oh, life is about as cheerful as a crutch just now. Stuart continues to get flattering letters from editors, but no checks—all jobs melt at one glance of my beautiful eyes. But I didn’t come to say that. Les came down to our place last night, and—”

“I’ve seen him,” said Em excitedly.

There was a sound at the door. Both girls started nervously.

“I must go,” said Genevieve decisively, her expression becoming instantly hard and uneasy.

“Please don’t, Jen, please—” Genevieve seemed part of Les.

“All right.” Genevieve lifted her head rather dramatically and bit her lips.

Em rose and seated herself in a casual attitude on a chair opposite Genevieve. Howard entered. His step was swinging and he removed his hat and overcoat with energetic movements.

“Good afternoon,” he said vigorously. Genevieve’s remoteness piqued and irritated him. Who was she! Damned commercial artist—pot boilers—lady’s magazine—

Genevieve bowed with cold distinction.

“Good afternoon,” she replied in her most perfect accent.

Howard tried to be oblivious to them both.

“Did Miss Westover come?” asked Em casually. A repressed happiness clung about her.

“Yes, a mob of people to meet her. They’ve carried her off to half a dozen places, but she’s coming here to tea.” He began to bustle about collecting trays, cups and saucers and other tea things.

“I really must go.” Genevieve rose elegantly.

“Don’t go, Jen.” Em’s eyes were pleading. She wanted an opportunity to talk alone with Genevieve, away from Stuart and Michael and the others.

“Won’t you stay and have some of my tea?” offered Howard, staring at Genevieve with insulting yet insidiously complimentary attention. Genevieve was looking her best.

“I really mustn’t.” She half rose.

“I’ll walk along with you then,” Em announced determinedly, rising also.

“I’d hoped you’d both stay and meet Algeria.” Howard’s tone was friendly, but deliberately perfunctory.

Em pressed Genevieve’s arm persuasively.

“It’s really very good of you—” Genevieve began with a sarcastic intonation.

Em clapped her hands.

“Yes, Jen, please. Oh, that’s fine!” Em glanced gratefully at Howard.

Genevieve, feeling helpless and excited by her own capitulation, sank gracefully in her chair.

3

Tea was ready. Howard paced the floor, glancing from time to time at his watch and talking with unusual geniality. The sunlight was already fading. Em’s curiosity at his impatience was not resentful. He’s like a child before a doll party, she thought. The tea grew cold. Howard made some fresh. This, too, was growing cold. He heated water for another brew, leaving the kettle on the stove in the kitchenette. Em’s cheeks glowed. I wonder if Les—At last the bell rang. Howard rushed to the door.

“A dramatic late arrival,” whispered Genevieve to Em. Algeria swam into the room, followed by Gouvain and three humble satellites unknown either to Em or Genevieve. Pausing, erect, to get the effect on her audience, Algeria toddled forward, a hand on each breast, her head back. She ambled into the group like a giant Geisha girl. “‘Enter Madame!’” Genevieve murmured cattily.

Everything about Algeria seemed to float. Her entire costume appeared to be made of scarves. A pink chiffon scarf was about her head, the loose ends wafting in long streamers as she turned. When her dull lilac-colored cloak was removed by obsequious hands, another enveloping scarf of pink chiffon was seen to cover her shoulders. This clung about her and, following the gestures of her arms in emphasis to her conversation, long free banners of it waved through the air. There were also lesser mauve stringers—festooned to her somehow and somewhere—there was no doubt as to the effect.

She halted and sent a dazzling smile around the room.

“Here is the Troll Maiden!” she trilled, roguishly rising to her tiptoes and throwing kisses in every direction. “I’d just love to hug all you peeties!”

Algeria had an interesting Flemish face but she tried, by cultivating a piquant expression and by making her eyes twinkle, to look Gallic. She was thinking now of the effect on Howard of her conquering entrance. A glance assured her that he still seemed impressed. She had been secretly perturbed over the reports of Em’s influence. Algeria never relinquished a conquest without a struggle. She was really clever and relentless. Every thought and gesture was conscious. Followers might rebel, but they remained. She was relieved at the sight of Em’s sensitive face and straightforward manner. That Strang woman is the dangerous one, she thought.

“This is Miss Tyler,” said Howard.

“Is this the wonderful Emily? My dear, you’re succulent!” Hesitating an instant with a demure grimace, Algeria trotted forward, seized Em, who had approached to shake hands, and kissed her rapturously. Algeria usually gushed the most over people she resented or feared. She thought quickly. The situation was somewhat special.

“And Miss Strang,” continued Howard.

Genevieve stood her ground warily.

“Miss Westover,” she responded in the apotheosis of her most patrician bearing.

But Algeria’s widely curved mouth kept smiling, a perfect painted smile of sophisticated ingenuousness. Her sharply penciled eyes expressed what seemed frank enjoyment of her own daring. She had already recognized someone worthy of her best resources.

“Ah, yes, where have I seen Miss Strang?”

“I don’t think you’ve seen me,” said Genevieve delicately, “although I’ve seen you rather often.”

Algeria laughed merrily. She was never disconcerted. When she began something seriously and dramatically and failed to produce her effect, she always deftly changed the attempt to a jest.

“Now I’m sure we’re old friends,” she declared with silvery hilarity.

The admiring satellites, one equine girl and two anemic young men, were perfunctorily introduced.

“You sit there, Algeria,” suggested Howard.

One of the male satellites, who had thoughtlessly advanced toward the indicated chair in the center of the room, stepped back hastily. Algeria arranged herself in it with an effective pose. Her dark sleek head, hair cut in the fashion of an Elizabethan page-boy, was in sharp relief against her draperies. Her plump arms were beautifully white, her too-small hands exquisitely kept. She had the unreal animation of a stolid-bodied but wickedly intelligent doll.

“You may sit here by me, Pierre,” she commanded. Gouvain obeyed sheepishly. “I’m so glad to get back to Sandwich Village,” she cooed, glancing at the tea-tray and then expectantly at her audience. Howard smiled and the three satellites giggled. “Let’s have some magic, dearestie.” Algeria smiled irresistibly. Her gaze was astonishingly direct, and yet somehow behind its naïveté she remained invitingly hidden.

Howard rose and ran into the kitchenette, returning with a bottle and some glasses. Em marveled at his submission.

“What kind of a voyage did you have?” inquired the girl satellite reverently, as Howard served the tea and wine.

“Rather oceany,” smiled Algeria, dimpling. Her throat was very white and thick. “I kept away from the dining-room, stayed in my suite, don’t you know. The passengers were really quite terrible. They ate so eatfully. I just couldn’t bear it!” Again she pealed silvery laughter in which the satellites dutifully joined.

“And Paris?” The girl again, ecstatically.

Algeria shrugged her heavy, incongruously voluptuous shoulders Frenchwise.

“It weaved around too much! You know Paris is so—winey. I’m afraid I was a badix.”

“Recite one of your poems, darling, please do,” continued the horse-faced girl humbly.

“Yes!” murmured the other satellites eagerly, “please do.”

Algeria smiled graciously, with a little grimace of elaborate gratification. She seemed to understand her own absurdity. Her air was of privileged outrageousness, innocently sophisticated.

“All right, peeties, s‑h‑a‑l‑l we?” Her ascending chromatic intonation of the word “shall” was indescribable. “Which one do you want?”

“Haf you one zat iss new?” Gouvain inquired apprehensively.

“Millions!” beamed Algeria, making a mental note against him. “Let me see. Oh! Here’s a little magic I wrote one night in Venice. We just ran down there for a few days, to drink a little beauty, you know.” With her tiny smooth claw-like perfectly manicured hands she pushed back her bobbed hair, dyed with a little gray still showing at the roots. Throwing back her head on her short white neck, she produced from some mysterious part of her a dilapidated comb—a comb that should never be seen anywhere—and violently combed out her mane. Howard was embarrassed by this operation, but he justified it with the gallant deliberateness of all her sexual gestures, however trivial.

The satellites arranged themselves in attitudes of breathless attention as she began to half recite, half sing, her poem, her eyes fixed on space, her heavy body swaying a little to the rhythm.

“Our Spanish Cæsar’s flotilla,
The Pope’s, and John’s of Austria,
We sailed the tideless sea to win
It from the curse of Keyr-ed-din.

“The old Venetian Admiral
Was fierce commander of us all;
Andrea Doria’s masterie
Was hard o’er all the tideless sea.”

“Unusual power of epithet!” ejaculated the lesser male satellite as Algeria paused raptly. She drew a brave breath and chanted on. Her voice was caressing, beautifully but rather meaninglessly modulated.

“The fleet sailed out for Barbary:
My lady fair she sailed with me,
For love of me, it came to pass,
Aboard my royal galleasse.

“Then fell the storm that reft us from
Our mates, and when the morn was come
Nor nef nor galley could we see:
’Twixt sky and wave alone sailed we.”

“Eerie!” shivered the other male satellite.

“We followed south to join anon
Our noble sister ships agone,
Until a day three sails were seen
Ahanging aft us late at e’en.

“When near we saw with hatred cold
The cursed crescent flying bold,
With Allah’s name a hundred fold
Writ over it in words of gold.”

Algeria paused again for her audience to recover.

“Marvelous!” sighed the girl. “It frightens me.”

“The chase turned to a hell the ship:
I walked the middle plank with whip;
The naked Paynim rowers moaned
And strained her forward till she groaned.”

“Terribly vivid picture,” observed the larger male satellite.

“And then I swore a fearful oath:
‘God’s splendour,’ vowed I by my troth,
‘An we gain free I will glad part
With what is dearest to my heart!’

“And in the thwarts there knelt in prayer
My tender bride with golden hair:
‘Saint John and Holy Sepulchre?’
She prayed with whited lips in fear.”

“It wrings my heart!” said the equine girl pitifully, as Algeria looked in her direction.

“I knew you’d love that,” gurgled Algeria sweetly, intoning on with even higher unction.

Great heavens, will it ever end? groaned Genevieve silently.

“And lo! in answer to her plea
We saw the land a league away,
And as we neared the island’s shore
From bastions rang the cannon’s roar.

“A banner waved and for its boss
The Hospitallers’ eight armed cross:
The Corsairs’ brood then drew away
While dead within their galleys lay.

“I turned from friends my love to see,
She turned from God and reached to me;
And then my heart it burgeoned out,
I caught her to me with a shout.”

“Oh!” breathed the girl, her hand on her breast.

“But I was dumb ere thanks I said,
The form I gathered up was dead;
Ashore I bore her tenderly:
She sleeps beside the tideless sea.”

“Wonderful! Exquisite! Impossible beauty!” vowed the satellites in impassioned chorus.

Algeria’s eyes regally swept the excited group. Her pupils were exaggerated, her vermilion lips pouted. She was crudely voluptuous. Howard sometimes suffered acutely in witnessing Algeria’s lack of subtlety. Some months of absence, and his determination to conserve the value of Algeria’s admiration for his work had dimmed his recollection of her most blatant phase. He had not remembered that it was as bad as this. But his discomfort was interrupted when Algeria, emerging for a flash from the prepossession of her artificial personality, gave him a confidential glance of amusement in which she maliciously deprecated her audience. Aren’t they absurd to believe in me, she seemed to say. Or so, in relief to his vanity, he interpreted it.

“Well, peeties, they are rather nice! We’re doing it, aren’t we?” For an instant, as if drawing aside the curtain before a mystery, she flashed the others a piquant smile of seemingly frank and innocent pleasure in herself.

“Of all things! in this day and age!” Genevieve spoke almost inaudibly to Em.

“It has a certain go to it, don’t you think?” said Howard, turning to Genevieve. During the recital he had been studying Genevieve’s harmonious make-up with critical approval.

“Good restoration jingle,” she replied with elaborate carelessness.

Howard’s glance had not escaped Algeria.

“Won’t you recite something, Miss Strang?”

“I don’t write,” returned Genevieve in her poised manner.

“What do you do? You look so clever I’m sure it must be something delightful.”

“Nothing,” said Genevieve calmly. She was thinking quickly, too. This woman is positively sinister, she decided.

“Just live?” smiled Algeria.

“That depends on where I am,” rejoined Genevieve a little crudely.

Algeria never let the moment turn cold. Ostentatiously forgetting to reply to Genevieve’s remark, she rose with a bird-sweep of arms and draperies.

“Come, dearesties! So dreadful to live in New York again! We shall be oh, so tired when we come back from our parties tonight. But we’re not losing any of our petals, are we?” She lifted her brows in an arch caressing grimace. The satellites flocked to her like chicks. Gouvain smiled sadly at Em. “Bring me my cloak, Pierre darling,” Algeria ordered quickly, intercepting Gouvain’s look. She had the immediate impulse to separate him from the rest of the group. (Behold, my fellow-countrymen—and women—Pierre! Don’t you see why I want to save Howard?) “And Howard dear, you must take me to Celia’s, people will be waiting.” Impartial proprietary pats and squeezes. A dramatic pause at the door before exit. “Good-by, sweetestkins!” She swooped down upon Em and kissed her destructively. “You must come to see me every day.” A finger uplifted. “Now don’t forget!” Algeria turned at last to Genevieve. “Miss Strang!”

Genevieve bowed.

Algeria, banners streaming, smiling triumphantly, followed by her entire cortege, dissolved spectacularly through the doorway.

Em and Genevieve were alone.

4

Genevieve drew a long breath.

Em was thinking. Puzzled. Deeply resentful because Howard had preached Algeria all this time. What do I mean if this is his ideal? It’s too absurd! I can’t realize it. He never did mean anything to me. He couldn’t. That unbelievable woman! The thought of Les came back and her face cleared.

“Well?” said Genevieve, raising her eyebrows.

“Isn’t it funny?” Em smiled a little.

“If you’d take those Loie Fuller draperies away she’d look like a washerwoman.” Genevieve’s spoken comments were usually social.

Em laughed.

“You’re chronically disillusioned, Jen.”

“Yea, verily, I am a bitter female.”

Em’s eyes grew soft again.

“Tell me about Les.”

“He’s wasting himself on that girl,” declared Genevieve shortly. I must get Em out of this somehow. Genevieve was frankly Howard’s enemy—and now Algeria!

“I’m so sorry for Cicely,” replied Em earnestly.

“I’m sorry for him!” snapped Genevieve, “You’re treating him rottenly, Em.”

“How, Jen? What can I do?” Em wanted Genevieve to make her do what she herself wished.

“Do! You can act like a human being toward him. Just because you’ve broken off your affair there’s no reason why you should both behave like early Victorians.” Genevieve’s affectionate anxiety seemed to vent itself in reproof. I must get Em away from these awful people! Something terrible will happen if I don’t. She tried to think only of Em. She did not acknowledge that Les came into her plan.

“I—I’d—love to—to be—” Em had not gone to Patchin Place because Les had not sought her. No. Because Cicely was there! But she felt that something would happen to let her see Les again. Les was hers. Of course their love relation was over—

“I’m going to have you two down to dinner,” announced Genevieve firmly.

“Oh, Jen, you darling!” Em rushed happily at her friend. “You sweet thing!” Tears were in Em’s eyes. She forgot that Howard had gone away in Algeria’s train.

“Well, I must be going.” Genevieve’s Anglo-Saxon imperturbability was strained. Arms about each other the two walked to the door. “I’ll let you know the time,” said Genevieve in a matter-of-fact tone.

“O‑o‑o‑h! you dear!” Em kissed her again.

After Genevieve had gone Em in the dusk danced a pirouette around the cold, gray living-room.

5

Algeria was here! Algeria had been the nurse of Howard’s vanity. He had always been pathetically grateful for praise, but had received little as an etcher and none as an individual. He had long known, deep within himself, what Algeria was; but could not acknowledge it because she insisted that he was a great artist. Then, other people admired her—fools, of course, but—

Now that she was back, he found that his life with Em had cruelly rendered him more incapable than ever of accepting the old make-believe. But Em held no promise of future obeisance to his artistic achievement. Therefore he could not destroy Algeria—the symbol of his past. He also could not help studying Algeria with a new detachment.

Arriving late at Celia’s place Algeria, with Howard, Gouvain, and the three satellites in tow, paused dramatically as usual and, all streamers flying, sailed overpoweringly into the crowded room.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed with an appealing, frightened air and a demure arching of her rather lovely brows. “Why, this is a great big party, isn’t it?”

Howard’s unaccountable irritation and shame returned. He had always accepted her kittenishness before. Transparent but pleasant—makes living easier—Now he thought: the woman has real taste, why the devil does she—He would not think!

During the party Algeria had a series of little confidential chats with each of her principal admirers. When she sank on the soft couch and snuggled down beside Carmen, Howard was near and could hear the conversation.

“Isn’t it dear of little Celia to do all this for me? See her over there! Isn’t it just too sweet? It’s my own little soul, you know!”

“Cel’a’s shome kid,” agreed Carmen tipsily. She had drunk far too much in honor of Algeria’s restoration to the group, but she honestly adored Celia.

Celia, curled up in an arm-chair, was hardly less inebriated and her short skirt was strikingly disarranged.

“Do you see its cute little head?” continued Algeria in a cuddling voice, “and,” with a low, hushed tone, “its adorable knee? Do tell me that you see its cute little knee? We can’t call attention to it, you know. It might cause a moment of embarrassment, and then it would be covered up. Isn’t it just too cute?”

Carmen nodded sapiently, a vacuous drunken smile on her good-natured face. Howard writhed.

“Do recite one of your poems, darling,” begged the girl satellite.

Algeria recited. In the midst of the long, rhymed ballad, celebrating the loves of “The Brown Singer and the Gold Singer,” Howard slipped from the room.

He was confused. He could not disown the part Algeria had played in his life! How had he changed? Earlier in the evening his vanity had been tortured almost unendurably by the three satellites who, seizing a cue from Algeria, had raved stupidly over two or three of his poorer things which Celia had. Being ignored hurt him, but adulation from people he despised degraded him. He blamed Algeria for the crudeness of it. Algeria’s mistake lay in the complacency of her contempt for those unlike herself. Howard enjoyed her refusal to take life seriously, but his very appreciation of her desire to escape the banality of responsibility made it intolerable for him to accept any implied condescension toward himself. He would laugh with her, but in one thing he would not be laughed at—

Behind Em’s new attitude of sisterly toleration he felt Les and Genevieve. Em’s jealousy of Algeria would have been balm to him. But Em took delight in tormenting him—she punished him for Les’s sake, he told himself. Her superiority to Algeria helped to make him inexorable.

As he hurried down the steps to the street he ran into an acquaintance, a third-rate pianist—one of Algeria’s numerous outer circle. Algeria herself composed music!

“Hello, Story,” said the smirking musician. “Heard Algeria Westover’s back and holding forth here tonight.”

“Well,” replied Howard coldly.

“I came around to be amused,” smiled the other. “The old girl’s a scream, isn’t she?”

“You’re a damned fool,” spat Howard, leaving his interlocutor breathless.

What’s the matter with me, Howard asked himself as he rushed down the street. Thinking himself detached from the illusions and dependencies of others he could not understand his unhappiness. I’m not working hard enough, he decided. He imagined he could do without the false sentimentality which disordered Em. Algeria at least was a decadent like himself. She belonged, with all her elaborate absurdities, to the select disillusioned. Bodily functions were as repulsive to her as they were to him.

Her poetry showed little or nothing of herself, beyond the desire to escape factual life which made it romantic. Algeria called herself pagan, but her mind was full of a mediæval terror of the flesh.

She had never achieved public expression as a painter, but she drew cleverly—caricatures of men and women in romantic sexual postures in which there was a leer of bestiality. There was real sincerity in these pictures. Her revolt from the actual was so sharp as to envelop everything physical in a romantic horror, and she herself was fascinated by this hideousness. All the sexual details of physiognomy were distorted to subjective representation.

Howard and Algeria shared this protest against themselves, a romanticism of pollution. This quality of outrage, of making all unclothing violent, and thereby lewd, terrified Howard as it applied to himself. He imagined himself stripped to Algeria’s imagination, and he was grotesque, like a fat clergyman in a bathtub. He had to preserve his alliance in cruelty.

Chapter III

Cake

“Roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man’s breast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart … and calling the cook, said to him, ‘Take this wild boar’s heart and look thou make a dainty dish thereof, the best and most delectable to eat that thou knowest, and when I am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer.’ The lady, who was nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding it good, ate it all; which when the knight saw, he said to her, ‘Wife, how deem you of this dish?’ ‘In good sooth, my lord,’ answered she, ‘it liketh me exceedingly.’ Whereupon, ‘So God be mine aid,’ quoth Roussillon; ‘I do believe it you, nor do I marvel if that please you, dead, which, alive, pleased you more than aught else.’ The lady, hearing this, hesitated awhile, then said, ‘How? What have you made me eat?’ ‘This that you have eaten,’ answered the knight, ‘was in very truth the heart of Sir Guillaume de Guardestaing whom you so loved.’”

“The Decameron of Boccaccio” (Trans. Anonymous)

1

Algeria could not bear to fail. More quietly and conventionally dressed, her manner subdued, she called on Em the next day. She talked skillfully of serious things. She would not accept dislike. Em was on the verge of capitulating to Algeria’s undoubted personality. She could respect Algeria’s neat malice, and Algeria’s insidious device of taking an auditor into her confidence about her victims almost disarmed Em. Perhaps I’ve misjudged her—But Algeria could not resist the temptation to quote a popular French painter’s mot anent Em’s work. It seemed safe. Em impressed Algeria as being rather helpless.

“Une explosion érotique.” Algeria laughed deprecatingly as she repeated the phrase. “Of course I thought he was horrid, my dear.”

Em unadmittedly made every criticism of her art a personal matter.

“He’s a spiritual toad,” she said relentlessly.

Algeria’s deftness was inadequate in regaining the lost key, so she departed uttering fervid eulogies of her own.

2

Howard hurried in. Em held an open letter in her hand.

“Has Algeria been here?” he asked, frowning.

“She just left.”

“I’ve run all over the Village looking for her. I’m giving a party here for her Thursday night and I’ve already invited most of the crowd, but I want to find out whom else she wants.” Em did not reply. “Will you help Celia with the refreshments?”

“I shan’t be here,” said Em.

Howard started.

“Why not?” he demanded with annoyance.

“I have a dinner.”

“What dinner?” Irritation was rapidly gathering in his voice.

“At Jen’s.” There was a conscious elation in her tone. I shall see Les—

“Put it off.” He spoke dictatorially. He must have Em and Algeria together if he was to subdue Em.

“I shall do no such thing.” Em raised her head fearlessly.

“It must be an important function,” he sneered. “Who are the celebrities you can’t incommode?”

Em glanced at her letter.

“Stuart and Jen and Les,” she said defiantly. Em’s eyes were bright, a slight color in her face. Her bearing was enticing. His eyes gleamed involuntarily.

“Why, this is simply insulting Algeria!” he exclaimed angrily. “What has she done?” Loyalty to Algeria armed him against Em.

“Nothing,” replied Em. “She’s a pill and a windbag, but I’ve nothing against her. I’m simply not coming, that’s all.” Em did not notice her harshness. She was triumphant. The fact of Les being near made her unassailable. When Algeria was present Howard seemed to shrink up. Algeria subdued him. He grew dim to Em.

Howard would not acknowledge that he hated to have Em force on him a deeper disillusion of Algeria. Algeria in the flesh was already a burden. But she meant freedom from Em. He sought for escape from his real provocation.

“Then it’s I you wish to discipline!” he retorted menacingly. “Well, the easiest way to feed your vanity is to hurt someone.”

3

Genevieve’s dinner was a sad affair.

Em had spent an inordinate amount of time adorning herself. A plain gray silk dress, hair arranged and rearranged until it exactly pleased her, careful rouging—her cheeks were growing hollow—a single long string of green glass beads—how thin my neck is!—nails perfect, eyes excited.

When she rang at the little tenement and was admitted by Genevieve herself, Les was sitting with Stuart on the broad couch. Les looked pale and haggard. Em had fancied herself rushing again into his arms, but as he rose she could only hesitate and hold out her hand. Even Genevieve and Stuart were outsiders.

“Hello, Les.”

“Hello, Em.”

“Stuff!” said Genevieve brusquely to Em. “Kiss him, you little goose!” Em and Les kissed timidly. Stuart stared with melancholy approval through the smoke from his pipe. “Now let’s have dinner before it gets cold,” Genevieve continued, almost bustling about in her tension. This was the cool, languid Genevieve! “You sit here, Les, and Em there. Come, Stuart—” She managed the moments like a presiding officer. I’ll be a wreck before the evening’s over, she thought desperately.

The conversation would not come. Genevieve tried frantically.

“It’s nice to have you here again.”

“Thank you,” said Les.

“Like old times.”

Silence.

Even Stuart attempted to talk.

Until she saw Cicely with Les, Em had not emotionally realized that she had lost him as a sex partner. Les’s presence without Cicely did not remove the pain. Cicely’s form in Em’s fancy was always at his side.

Les’s heart ached. What have I done? Never.…

Em and Les beyond help. Finally each went home.

“My God!” Genevieve burst into tears on Stuart’s shoulder.

4

Howard’s spite at her repudiation of his party spurred his desire to make Em jealous of Algeria. He was devoted to Algeria, planned constantly for Algeria’s diversion, was seen with Algeria early and late. With Les apart from Cicely Em would not have succumbed. But it was borne in on her that both the men she had elected to prefer no longer preferred her.

Although Em’s absence from his party was the seal of Howard’s defeat, he still wished to do her post-bellum injury. He resented her defection as he had once resented having to acknowledge her to others. In the same way he had formerly hated her for being a greater artist than himself, and now he could not forgive her for accomplishing nothing. She was even going off physically—She had been no credit to him either personally or in public.

The morning after the party. Howard ostentatiously abstracted. Em came into the living-room and could see him through the open door of the kitchenette as, his tall figure wrapped in a gray dressing-gown, he prepared his coffee. She felt peculiarly depressed and hesitant.

“Good morning, Howard.” She had waited in vain for him to speak to her.

Howard answered over his shoulder.

“Good morning.” He began very softly to whistle a theme from “Pelleas and Melisande.”

Em came and stood uneasily in the doorway.

“Can I help? Have you made enough coffee for both of us?”

Without glancing at her, Howard lifted the lid of the percolator and peered in.

“I think so.”

Forcing herself to overcome the desire to immolate herself which she had brought from her meeting with Les, she placed some dishes on a table by one of the windows in the living-room. Howard brought out the coffee and toast and they began their meal. Em watched him furtively, ashamed of her anxiety as to his reactions toward her. Where is my pride?

Howard was perfectly conscious of Em’s uneasiness. Her presence in the house after seeing Les at Genevieve’s in some way convinced him that she would stay. Even if she went, she must come back. She would not leave him with Algeria. Howard had learned of Cicely. He had grown confident. His wounds were healing. Algeria would help him make Em pay. He lighted a cigarette and, as he smoked and sipped his coffee, stared through the window at the damp roofs opposite glistening in the pearly morning light. Sparrows quarreling in a tin gutter. Lilac spiral of smoke rising from a chimney. Howard admitted some apprehensiveness but he was determined to express to Em nothing but satisfaction and well-being.

“How was the party?” she asked with a nervous effort. The coffee nauseated her and the toast seemed tasteless.

“Oh, what a party always is.” His agreeable tone suggested that something other than the party—some more intimate memory—was responsible for his complacent abstraction. He added: “Of course Algeria was the party—she always is. It’s amusing the way these people down here in the Village fight for a chance to pour oblations before her.”

Em tried not to feel spiteful.

“She has a very compelling personality.” Em recognized Algeria’s force. I must be honest about it. She has personality—and charm—the personality of a successful vaudeville artist. She should be a great actress. Algeria’s adamant will where her own interests were touched, her dominance over her superiors by tricks just crude enough to be unanswerable—some Jews have this genius—these Em instinctively divined.

Howard flecked ash from his cigarette. He felt Em’s suppressed attitude of condescension toward Algeria. It seemed to him an indirect condescension to himself. It made him resent Algeria more, and blame Em violently for his added resentment. His eyes, staring deliberately away from her, hardened in bitterness. He smiled to himself as if unconsciously.

“I wonder what are the components of Algeria’s personality. Of course an acute mind—she never fools herself. And then, too, she has that saving attribute, a sense of humor.”

Em gazed steadily at Howard. She felt ill physically, and there was a horrible mental illness in her consciousness that her body was sick.

“I don’t think she has much humor.”

“Why not?” For the first time, pugnaciously, Howard met Em’s eyes with his hard bright ones.

“She’d laugh at herself oftener than she does.”

“My dear Em.” Howard was conspicuously patient. “Algeria always laughs at herself. That’s why she is so delightful. She is too profoundly a pessimist to take anything seriously. You probably haven’t caught her spirit because your own deadly seriousness has excluded you from participation. Take care that she doesn’t laugh at you, too.”

Tears rose to Em’s eyes. She could not hide them from Howard’s mercilessly detached scrutiny. I look ugly. I can’t help it. She tried to harden herself against him. If he feels like this I oughtn’t to care.

Howard was inwardly jubilant. He was salving his old injuries. In their early days his acuteness had discovered that any praise of other women’s attraction was accepted by Em as an implied comparison. He knew exactly what to say. She doesn’t dream how much I’ve suffered—

“I suppose she does laugh at me!” Em’s pride came. “It would just be a part of her shallow philosophy to laugh at anything real. Like an ant laughing at—at an avalanche.”

Howard’s lip twitched. His eyes were angry, but he tried to seem amused.

“Pooh!” What bombast—sickening! “Algeria realizes as all intelligent people do that since the war the world’s a joke.”

“It always was, in that sense. It hasn’t changed any. Why doesn’t she think she’s part of the joke?”

“She does.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Howard began to feel at bay. He could not weather reversals.

“A beautiful woman can’t really be expected to be serious—not as a habit.” It was as if he were defending himself. He could not forgive Em for forcing him to this explanation of Algeria.

“Beautiful!!” Em’s cheeks flushed. The warmth of blood in them hurt her. She was angry at what seemed to her the preposterousness of Howard’s exaggeration. He only says that to bait me, she said to herself. At the same time the comparison he suggested was insidious.

Once in a moment of analysis and with no intent of malice he had, in his inhuman detachment as an artist, remarked that Em’s mind, a crystalline something, attracted and compelled men rather than her body. He had noted her emotional confusion and her effort to avoid admitting the hurt of his words. Now he watched her jealously. Algeria! she thought. Is that what men really admire? Even Les—One had just as well face it—the elemental basis of relationship between men and women. You have to please. Then they will let you love them, Howard spoke.

“Why, yes. I think Algeria is often quite beautiful. Don’t let jealousy prejudice you, Em.” He laughed boyishly, feeling somehow released from the humiliation of defending Algeria.

“I’m certainly not jealous! I couldn’t be—of her.”

Howard thought quickly of Les. Has their reconciliation really been a go? Why isn’t she more affected by this? His expression, in an attempt to conceal the changes of his emotion, became sarcastic.

“Of course you’re jealous. There are two types of women—those who have minds and those who have bodies. They always envy each other. The woman of brains wants to be considered a siren, and the woman with a beautiful body insists that you discover her soul.”

Em had accepted in advance all the inferences about herself. She despised Howard for his cruelty. How can he! Doesn’t he see any pathos in me? He wants to pity himself. I’d never torture him for what he can’t help.

“I thought you said Algeria had both beauty and wit.”

“She has; but of course for all her mental acuteness she is preëminently a body. Algeria would have lovers if she were stupid.”

Em thought of Algeria’s faded piquancy, her dyed hair, her disenchanting appearance in street dress—But she was affected just the same. Self-distrust had poisoned her too deeply.

Howard had begun to use his insight to torture Em for destroying his illusion of Algeria, and for ignoring Algeria’s jealousy of her. The pathos of Em’s naked desire to receive from him a sign of her physical power had rehabilitated his faith in himself.

5

Em was afraid. She now argued with Howard for kindness as Les had pleaded with her. But the time had come when she and Howard were no more able to speak each other’s language than she and Les had been. Em’s love for pain was that of a drug addict: more and more was required. She had sought to seize life through suffering. The god of pain was dead.

Left alone Howard and Em’s affair would by now have been naturally effete. They had gotten everything from each other. But Les’s return—and Cicely—with Howard’s appeal to Algeria, had injected something new and imponderable. Its momentum of waste and strife carried it on. Though tortured on both sides, Em could not give up both and have her individual self-respect.

After Howard’s inhumanness she went to see Les. Cicely was there, but departed at once, almost eagerly, and left them alone. Her garments hanging in the room were like flames to Em’s flesh. They could not talk, Les was too kind. She was beating against mist. His thoughts were his own. A frozen river—

When Em returned to the apartment she felt bewildered. Les and I couldn’t have gone on. Why should I mind! She felt she could never reveal herself. She could not paint. She was penniless. Dust!

Howard came. When he entered the room his first quick glance noted her listless attitude as she sat by a window staring into the street. He wanted something violent to happen, but he did not have the courage to precipitate the kind of crisis that would have relieved him.

“Howard, I must talk to you.”

His mouth was grim and frustrate. He had decided to be unyielding.

“I have nothing to say.”

“Howard, I can’t stand it.”

“Neither can I.”

Howard found his conception of his own detachment was becoming ridiculous. He turned and left her. She does not see that I am in pain. Em was showing him the impossibility of escaping sentimental delusions. Muck! Give me more of Algeria’s poison—

6

Em threw herself on the couch.

I’ll kill myself if my head goes wrong. She had never felt that she need heed consequences. If a situation became impossible she could escape it like this. She tried to tell herself that she did not love life too much. Once she had said this to Howard.

“Pooh!” he had replied. “You think if you’re reckless enough, someone will be aghast and interfere.”

He could be neither a human being nor an artist. He had hated her because she could not help being an artist but wanted only to be a human being.

I can’t live. She went to her bedroom and took a tiny bottle from a drawer. It was poison she had stolen from Toby’s room one night when he had cooked dinner there for them both. Toby was always experimenting with strange chemicals. She remembered the skull and cross-bones on the label of the green flask she had taken it from.

“Oh, Les, Les—” she sobbed, but no tears came.

She could have borne losing Howard to Algeria if Les had not been in New York. This is what it all comes to. Algeria. Pose. Sound. I hate it. Algeria the deification of Greenwich Village. Deformed with Christianity—exposing grotesque bodies in attitudes that mock their own pretense of paganism. She belongs there! The death of expression. Eaten my hope. Bohemia! Menagerie. Animals. No—animals are genuine. Marionettes. Ghosts. Greenwich Village is a monster. No one. My body is dry. Mitra. New York. Tread of elephants. Village. Wasps buzzing. Air!

Les—Cicely! The betrayal of emotion to a third person. It isn’t Algeria. Em felt as if Cicely had stolen her pride—her reserve. Oh, Les, why did you—Howard! I did too, Emotion. Unseeing emotion. Emotion without object. Sick vanity. Em beat her face with her fists.

Cicely’s soft breasts. Em threw the vial across the room. I can’t leave life with Les in it. She meant “with Cicely.” Her pride would not let her give her life to another woman. Cicely had saved her.

Really she was still vacillating. How she admired and adored Les! But could she exist without the strain and stress with Howard that she felt was real in its pain? She was ashamed that she had not the courage to die. She was ashamed that she was clinging to Howard after he had tired of her.

Chapter IV

The Happy Ending

“He who bred me up sold a certain young maid of Rome; whom when I saw many years after, I remembered her, and began to love her as a sister. It happened some time afterwards that I saw her washing in the river Tyber; and I reached out my hand unto her, and brought her out of the river: and when I saw her, I thought with myself, saying, How happy should I be if I had such a wife, both for beauty and manners. This I thought with myself; nor did I think any thing more. But not long after, as I was walking, and musing on these thoughts, I began to honour this creature of God, thinking with myself how noble and beautiful she was. And when I had walked a little I fell asleep. And … the heaven was opened, and I saw the woman I had coveted, saluting me from heaven, and saying, Hermas, hail! and I looking upon her, answered, Lady, what dost thou do here?”

“The Shepherd of Hermas” (Trans. Archbishop Wake)

1

Les thought he loved Cicely because she was comfortable. He was grateful to those who relieved him of self-expression. I adore people who draw no emotion. But he had seen Em. Em had never gone away. She was. He did not sleep. Thinking at night, Cicely relaxed and quiet beside him. Slow years … I hear the shadows … hours unfolding like petals … cliffs of white mist … road flying on like a bird.…

Cicely was not to blame. His dissatisfaction was with her sweetness. He leaned over and looked at her in the dim gathering light. She gave too much. He was ashamed that he found any burden in her giving. Her mouth drooped a little. She knew in her dreams.

Dawn! Crimson banners of dawn … slaying the stars … tears of dew … gold arms of the sun … Cicely sat up and stretched her young body. Her gold-brown eyes were soft. Cicely had formerly worked downtown in an office. Living with Les had frightened her of life a little, but it made her feel superior to her undistinguished existence.

“Are you awake, Les?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

She seized him in her arms and kissed him.

2

Em rose early. She bathed and dressed carefully. There was decision in her. I can’t paint and I won’t make my living in bed. She persuaded herself that she had no intention of going to Les. Em felt that she could do without Howard, there were enough other things to hurt her. She was her own.

Breakfast. Waiting for Howard. That she could not kill herself had clarified things to her. Her trunks were packed, her easel tied up. It was after ten o’clock when he came to the apartment. Cold good-mornings. He moved about the rooms collecting some etchings.

“Howard, we must talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied shortly. Howard had misjudged Em. What he had thought was patience with him had been an approaching indifference. It’s beginning over again, I don’t love the woman, he kept telling himself. Sexual mystifications, I’m through with it. Em had either to come through as an artist or die. I’m through with her unless she conforms to me. If she isn’t an artist, she’s nothing. None of us are. He felt cursed by his own banality, viciously anxious to achieve something in his work. If I were self-deceived like the others, things would be easy for me, he thought.

“It shall be our last talk,” said Em.

Howard halted and looked at her keenly. She imagined there was gladness in his eyes. She was humiliated. He hasn’t the courage, she thought to comfort herself. He pulled forward a chair, seated himself wearily and lighted a cigarette, his hand playing nervously with the chair arm.

“What do you want, Em?”

“I’m going.” She resented his lack of surprise.

“Why should we have to talk about it?” He could repress himself strongly. Let her go. Algeria. She’ll come back. His air was almost insolent.

Em wanted to break self-respectingly with Howard. She wanted to force him to prove to her that he was worthy of the moment. He must salve her vanity. He must show himself big enough to justify her for having allowed him to mean so much to her.

“I want us to be friends, Howard.”

“I hate friendship. Most people haven’t the guts to recognize death when they see it. Why dress up a corpse?” Howard was bearding danger. He was determined to compel her to cease stipulating.

Em did not want a discussion. She needed an event.

“Howard, must we end like this?”

“Why did we ever begin?” His mouth was ugly. Algeria had deliberately overdone her suggestion to Howard. Algeria wanted to be rid of Em. So she had shrewdly led him to believe that Em could not be driven away. Far more cunningly had Algeria dropped into his mind seeds of the idea that he was finished with Em.

Em’s patience was ever short-lived, even when she wanted something.

“I began because I thought we could be honest and live together decently for a while.”

“We began honestly enough, why can’t we end so? Why the conventional lie? We’re through with each other. Your idea of honesty is telling disagreeable truths to someone for your own pleasure.”

It was out now! He felt ill with despair which he would not attribute to Em. He loathed the memory of his etchings. He was through with them—through with everything. There was a stealthy undercurrent to this explanation of his emotions. He would not admit it. Em thought again of her desired scene. I can’t part with a quarrel. Howard looks ill. She was excited—sorry for him. She wished for the dignity of Les.

“You’re not very gentle with people yourself, Howard.”

“Gentleness is habitual timidity.” He threw his cigarette into the grate and rose. His eyes were implacable.

Em’s head was up, her eyes antagonistic. She had forgotten her worthy parting scene.

“Then why do you blame me? You’re very virtuous all at once!”

“I admit to a few virtues. I may despise them as springing from cowardice, but the trouble with you is you can’t see they’re as necessary as if they didn’t.” I don’t believe in virtue, he said to himself. Virtue isn’t necessary. What is necessary is to recognize dry rot of the emotions, but anything to get rid of her—His mind was clear at last!

Em remembered. A gesture—She strove desperately to keep the upper hand, but she felt the occasion too much. She had something to lose.

“I want you to know that I don’t see myself as you see me, Howard.” She was incapable of taking dialectical advantage, always a hostage to her own frankness.

Howard observed her increased agitation.

“You don’t see yourself at all. What you’ve always resented is that I do see you. The result has been a series of vulgar squabbles. You’ve convinced me of the value of good breeding.” Algeria echoing in him.

“I don’t care for good breeding!” returned Em hotly. “I respect only something real—” Why breeding? They were eternally talking about breeding!

“Breeding never does affect women. The most they ever learn is to appraise breeding in men, and you’ve never learned that. You disgust me with your idea that crudity is synonymous with reality. Damn reality!”

Em began to feel the old-time thrill of his cruelty.

“You’ve never learned to be human,” she accused bitterly. “All you care for is a shallow artistic creed.” They were both regardless. There’s no more hope for us now, she thought.

“I care for what has never come into our relation, a little beauty,” he retorted with equal bitterness. Algeria again.

Em sprang to her feet.

“I’ve had enough of beauty without any pity!” she cried with passionate emphasis. “To me beauty means something—something true.”

“Blah!” exclaimed Howard. “And I’ve had enough of your predilection for hurting people and then wanting them to ‘understand’ it. There must be manners between lovers.”

They stood facing each other angrily. They were drunk with pain. He had caused her so much pain that for a moment she could not bear the thought of losing him. Then pride rushed over her, she was drunk with disdain. She spoke very distinctly.

“I’m glad I’ve hurt you.” Power was more than love.

His face was contorted with defeat. Everything else was forgotten. He spoke for himself now.

“You’ve got the blood-lust of a well-fed criminal,” he said brutally.

Em, her face pale, her eyes luminous with wrath and suffering, seized a hat and coat and ran from the room. When she returned, late in the afternoon, it was to deliver her trunks and her easel to an expressman. Howard was not there. As she went out she laid her key on a table and pulled the self-locking door shut behind her.

3

Howard had given so little time to Em that days passed before any of his friends, except Algeria, knew she had left him. But Algeria gloated publicly. She had a cool brain, an accurate feeling for distant prevention. The retinue was assembling after dinner at Algeria’s studio.

“That girl has lost dear Howard,” she announced confidentially.

“Elephants!” pondered Mitra, voice almost hidden.

Celia only smiled. Gouvain rose and stared agitatedly at a statuette he loathed.

“Poor Howard was never happy with her. She belongs to that unfortunate type of being who has ideals,” Algeria confided to each comer. “Emily had a horrible idea of reforming the poor boy. We like to hear him sing. But then we’re not serious. Howard is a little the faun, but Emily, alas, is not a fauness.”

It was impossible for Howard to avoid meeting Em. Fate was mischievous. On the street, Esther’s at dinner, twice in the Square. Em would not slink away from her haunts. Howard exerted his best skill. The only solace was that Algeria was with him each time. Algeria embarrassed him. Em had made him secretly ashamed of Algeria. But now he was glad he had Algeria to scout Em. Algeria did hurt Em. They had common acquaintances. Algeria continually implied that she had taken Howard from Em. Les’s clear-eyed girl friend met Algeria on the street: she was interested in what might affect Les.

“I hear that Howard Story—” she began hesitatingly.

In the harshness of street clothes Algeria’s vague heaviness of line was emphasized—what was subtly soft in shimmering draperies became merely undistinguished. Her body appeared stolid and commonplace, in the coldness of sunlight her winsome grimaces were ineffective. She looked handsome, capable, cold, and almost matronly. In a measure she herself realized this. Her dramatic sense of fitness made her instinctively adapt herself to the limitations of her appearance, and her daytime manner was factual and subdued.

“Yes, we have the dear boy back,” she said soberly. “He’s so much more like himself now. The trouble with the girl was that she was trying to make Howard over. We don’t care about his faults. Emily is one of those terribly deadly earnest people, you know. She would consider Arcady an immoral place!”

Em did not talk. One night at the old neighborhood restaurant. Em dining alone. Algeria, respectfully followed by one of the male satellites, sailed to the next table. Em tried not to see them.

“Did Mr. Story—” The voice of Algeria’s companion was fuzzy and carried badly.

“Yes, dear Howard was almost ill after my last party. I kept him all night and put ice on his poor head. We had been reading some of that new man’s stuff—the Macauleyflowers of prose, you know.” Algeria laughed sweetly.

The satellite humbly mumbled something inaudible.

Em suddenly found herself angry and desponding, unable to keep her poise. She rose and went out. Her pride could not bear that Algeria should be her successor. The night street was still thronged. Em walked along it, through the welter of lights, the noise, the flashings of motor lamps. Reflections on the steel rails of car-tracks made them like thin lines of snail slime up the black avenue. There was no end to anything. Em longed to make herself insensible with noise and light in the crowd to which she was unknown.

4

Em alone. Only Gouvain tried to see her—secretly from Algeria. She had not told Les or Genevieve of her break with Howard. Her tiny room was a cell. Straggly back-yards she could see through her window! Airless walls opposite. One tree, swelling with tight buds, leaned up and scraped her glass. The days were yet cold. She did not even set up her easel. Something in me is going. I must have—I’m too weak! I can’t live in myself.

She went to see Les. She had lost her pride. His smile was good. She was glad she was away from Howard’s rooms.

“Les, I’m living in a hall bedroom on Charles Street.”

He wrote the number in a book.

“Have you—-?”

“Yes, Les.”

Cicely was not there, but her clothes hanging in the room still burned and revolted Em. Looking at them she felt physically degraded, yet unable to protest—caught in her own act.

Les sat thinking. The hand of God.…

His solid homeliness comforted her. The narrow mouth, set in a stern line of repression, dominating his face. The deep-set eyes and well-lobed ears. Suddenly her heart melted to him. She forgot everything else. His downcast gentleness wrenched at her. He was her mournful child. How Howard would despise such a feeling! Les will let me. I must love something. She felt apologetic of her need to love. Howard had proved it all false. But she couldn’t help it. No use trying to be clear and conscious about life. She wanted something to keep her warm.

“Oh, Les—” She sank to her knees beside his chair and sobbed against him.

He trembled but could not speak. Can I live again? Alone on a sea of glass … ship-lights at night … gulls crying in the dark … screaming spirits … sunlight on a dead man’s face.… He knew Em was all he cared for, more than his life. But had he strength?

“Remember I’m much older than you, Em.” I can’t go through it again. She raised her face and knew by his eyes that he would have her. Les, Les—“I’m coming to see you, Em, but first I must—”

Cicely!

Em struggled to her feet. She tried to speak to him, but could not. He pressed her hand. She turned and rushed blindly out.

5

Les wished for Carl.

Carl had shared with him. There had been no asking. A golden thread between them. Women. Radiant fiends. Pale as dreams.… Carl was in London but he could touch Carl.

Cicely returned. She threw off her coat happily, dark cheeks glowing, gold-brown eyes smiling.

“Now I’ll get my boy some dinner.”

“Wait, Cicely—”

He told her. The crime of manhood. Cicely lay crumpled on the bed. She tried to blame someone, but was too hurt. Les’s heart ached. I had to—No living thing is merciful. Hands cold as snow.… The garden of death.… Mouth red for kisses, twisted in pain. Divine pity—Tears from a harlot’s eyes! There are no stars to see her die.…

When Les had gone Cicely got up and packed her things neatly.

Les went several places before he rang the bell at Em’s number. A scrawny woman with thick spectacles opened the door. There was a rubber plant in the red-carpeted hall. The stairway smelled of stale food. He walked heavily upstairs. Les was tired. He felt the suspicious gaze of the spectacled woman fixed on his back. At Em’s door he knocked. She threw it back and halted breathless, looking at him through blind tears of surprise and relief.

“Les!” Em could only weep convulsively.

“Can your things go? A man is coming for them.”

“Oh, Les, Les—”

“We can have our place at Jane Street back. I’ve been there.”

She huddled to him. How peaceful his voice is! She would come back the next day and settle her account with the landlady. Arm in arm they passed down the stairs and through the ill-smelling house again. Going home together! In the street a tremulous sigh.

“Les, I adore you!”

The Polish janitress was in the hall as they entered the Jane Street house. Em loved the cold clean floors, the shabby familiarity of the place.

“Good evening, Mr. Drane, good evening, Mrs. Drane.” The stout janitress smiled and stood aside for them as in the old days. But she looked at Em cautiously.

“Good evening,” they called back, Em’s voice sweet with happiness.

The fat woman’s eyes followed Les affectionately as he ascended the stairs after Em. All the strange doors on the landings. I never knew who lived here, thought Em. It seemed wonderful to have Les in the horrible cold city world. I’m happy! Oh, I’m so happy!

Chapter V

The Fear of Life

“There was once a King and a Queen, and they had twelve children, all boys. One day the King said to his wife: ‘If our thirteenth child is a girl, all her twelve brothers must die, so that she may be very rich and the kingdom hers alone!’ … When the brothers heard of this they were very angry, and said: ‘Shall we suffer death for the sake of a girl? Let us vow that wherever we shall meet one of her sex she shall die at our hands.’”

The Brothers Grimm—“Hausmärchen”

(Trans. Anonymous)

1

Manhattan narrow like a street, street of the world, sooner or later one meets everybody.

Sir David Grove, Les’s old rival and colleague: neck and neck, honors even, each had magnified the other’s discoveries, respectful friends. Sir David Grove, K.C.B., F.R.S., honorary degrees from a dozen universities, alphabetical Sir David, titles in imposing inverted pyramids under his name, covering half the title-page of each of his books. Drawer full of decorations. They do these things better in England. Big Sir David, body of a squire, huge peasant beard, eyes like God’s friend, seeing everything. Voice big like himself. Bang! into each other in the midst of Fifth Avenue—no escape.

“Damme if it isn’t ———!” Sir David sounded a name that startled Les. My old name! Why hasn’t he forgotten it?

“Hello, Grove.”

“Come into the Union League here. Jove, what luck!” Les followed, half-stupefied. Sir David whispered something to an attendant. “Sit down, sit down, my dear fellow. That’s an easy chair.” Les sank into the chair. “Where have you been? Your monograph on the Pleurotomidæ is out, I suppose you’ve seen. Read the proof myself, damn you! Your university wrote that you were dead! New genus named for you. Good plates. Eisenwein of Vienna had a fit, started to revise his whole life work on your new theories, ha, ha, ha!” Les drank dreamily from a glass of something that had appeared on the little table between them. Sir David boomed along. “Glad to see you, suppose you’ve been on a little expedition of your own, what did you get? But seriously, my dear chap, you must get down and finish up some things with me. Poor old Latour at the Jardin des Plantes has got the Rhabdocœla all balled up. I can’t go into it, you know, I’ve got the Pterobranchia and several other groups to do, and I’m fifty-six. Grabowitz in Moscow is coming on very well with the Siphonostomata, or would be if that little pissant Denny at Cromwell Road weren’t eternally publishing half-baked guesses that get into the literature, he doesn’t know an Entomostracan from an Ascidian. Of course, as you know, some new material must be found to clear up lacunæ and so forth, and here’s the plan.” Sir David bent forward in his chair. “A new expedition, adequate scale, Seychelles, Celebes, the Andamans, and whole zöo- and phyto-area necessary, every detail planned, in fact only eight weeks off, I’m over here for last touches in apparatus. Come along as co-director with me.” Sir David leaned back, paused for breath, and dragged a big brier pipe from his coat pocket.

Les’s cheeks tingled with a little color but he did not look up. Em.… Is life beginning again? Helplessly conscious of grandiloquence. Her eyes on him. I can’t leave Em now. The courage of a greater fear. What is love? Souls.… I’ll never leave her. He thought of himself as making an epic sacrifice.

“I suppose you know there’s been a scandal.”

Sir David laughed till the room rang.

“Rubbish! You remember my—well, with little Polly? Now the Dowager Lady Seccombe, bless ’er? All forgotten. I guessed so. Fact Twichell said something about the newspapers—I never read ’em. But what of it? What does the scientific world care about—I tell you they can’t spare us, my dear boy!”

Les raised his eyes.

“I’m afraid I can’t come, awfully fine of you of course.”

Sir David pulled his riotous beard thoughtfully.

“Too bad, of course Twichell will jump at it, he’s the next best one; but curse him, he hasn’t a dynamic conception of a species. There’s a dozen with their mouths all fixed up for it. Hum, I suppose you know best.”

Les got up.

“Nice to have seen you again.”

As he disappeared Sir David reared his great length and walked twice up and down the empty room, studiously contemplating his own huge heavily shod feet. At last, blowing out a dense cloud of smoke, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and tapped his forehead solemnly with his forefinger. Then he went in to his luncheon.

2

With Em gone to Les, Howard and Algeria did not quite know what to do with their own new relation. Algeria seemed childish to Howard. Her airy defense had been excellent in youth, but it gradually intensified with time, like a grisly coquetry in a fast-aging woman. The whole reason for enduring seemed gone with Em, but he would not give up. She admires me, he insisted stubbornly to himself. He allowed himself to be pushed into the background, however. He, with Carmen’s help, had really been ruling Algeria’s circle in her absence. Now he tried to believe his vanity amused that the group preferred her. She was more their intellectual size. A good ideal! He tried to enlarge himself with the magnitude of his contempt, to make it include everyone. Howard was not given to drink. But he wished he could be drunk—physically—with anything. To forget.

To keep him diverted Algeria plunged into an orgy of parties. Algeria’s parties were amazing events. She continually invited people—people who could not possibly mix—because they had “done” something. Then she attempted to make them perform. Usually, like babies or pets, they refused to show off until Algeria became elfishly panicky and drank more and more wine, at last mazily persuading herself that all was going delightfully.

Algeria was a genius in capturing and focusing the attention of a group on herself. But her talent was special and personal. She could not direct a gathering. One evening she had assembled a collection of diminutive celebrities. A threatened fiasco had driven her to such a state of alcoholic defenselessness that jealous poetic rivals had even succeeded in preventing her from reading her own almost endless poem, “The Elf Lover.” The Passionate Poetess (the hapless Stieg silent in leash), with the mastery of a situation that never failed, had wrested the reins from the wittily despairing Algeria and was in full sway.

Howard arrived late. As he opened the door his glance took in Algeria, composed of blue and mauve stringers this time, unsteadily holding court in a corner of the big room—Carmen, Celia, Gouvain, and the satellites surrounding her—the rebellious P. P. in charge of the program of entertainment.

“We’re in the midst of a reading,” the P. P. whispered impressively to Howard as he made his way through the crowd to Algeria and her entourage. He had hardly seated himself when the P. P. clapped her plump hands for attention. “Mr. Klobber will now recite an unpublished poem to an original accompaniment on his mandoguitar.”

There was a rustle of expectation as an anemic young man with misty spectacled eyes and trembling nostrils shambled forth holding a ukelele-like instrument and seated himself nervously on a geometrical chair near the center of the room. To a running tinkle of pleasant shallow sound he intoned with intense pathos.

“Here—
There—
Everywhere.
Kittens—
Yellow butterflies.
One in one
Being two
Is two.
Little two,
Will you be my one?
Me, too!”

As the light applause died away after the final rickety flourish of the strings, a mountain of a woman in a soiled lace gown exploded with cavernous voice:

“Subtle!”

“He has a tricksy art,” piped a perky-faced little spinster near her.

Hand-claps again from the P. P.

“Juaquin Pilcher will now read an unpublished poem.”

A mad-eyed young man with a whorl of wiry rebellious hair rose suddenly from his chair and read monotonously.

“Rather,
Mon cher,
Notice that the moon
Is a pustule:
That women have legs—
Not limbs,
But legs;
What’s more
Bellies,
Garbage underneath.
But this is of no moment.
Garbage hidden under the snow.
Garbage
Is my apology.”

“Subtle!” coughed the lace mountain.

“Strong, very strong!” piped the echo.

Howard stared at Pilcher. Eyes, hair—he’s like me, thought Howard panically. There but for the grace of God—There came over him a positive terror of Greenwich Village and its absurdities. Algeria had been holding his hand. He drew it away. I ought to think this ridiculous. Am I ridiculous? Art versus life! Ha! Slush—

Hand-claps.

“Miss Rosemarie Bean will now read an unpublished poem,” announced the P. P.

A Pre-Raphaelite maiden with pale red hair half rose and then reseated herself in confusion. “The title is part of the poem,” she prefaced guiltily.

“It Was Said by More

Than one ‘the impene-
trable introvert to
Be integral with-
out the facti-
tious device of
A conning tower’ to
Filch security from ob-
vious outwardness must sp-
in the unobserved in-
to a construct of a-
lien vision. Wheth-
er the ‘pale rho-
dodendrons of
Fancy’ are erected as
Two facts or one
Is immaterial.”

“Subtle!” from the bass-voiced mountain.

“Intellectually intense,” from the echo.

Claps.

“Miss Sybil Spinther, an unpublished poem.” Miss Spinther shakes her head and whispers in terror to the P. P. “Well,” announces the P. P. in a relieved tone, “by request I will now read one of my own unpublished poems.” Clearing her throat and adjusting her spectacles she began to read in a high shrill voice.

“Not yet the irrefutable implacable
Singing its wild song in Avenue A
Amidst hot tides of flesh,
Turgid loins seeking—”

Howard rose. The P. P. was good for half an hour at least. Algeria seized him alluringly.

“We can’t bear to see Pan dishonored, can we?” she whispered sympathetically.

“Let me get out of here,” he replied in a petulant undertone.

Algeria pouted.

“I thought it would amuse you, dearestie,” she reproached.

“It has,” said Howard viciously. He tiptoed from the room, the P. P.’s voice blaring after him into the hall and down the stairs.

Ugh! he breathed as he reached the street. Fake artists. Puny scribblers. Tin-pot Nietzscheans. Tramps. Idiots. Em was—I’m done with Greenwich Village. The place for those who have nothing. Why should the damned spot devastate one so! Good God! First Drane and then Em and now I’m finally disgusted with it. Algeria never would be. It had made her. Howard told himself over and over that he was sick of the belated romanticism of Bohemia.

3

Howard was now living at Algeria’s studio. They had never before publicly been lovers. Algeria would never acknowledge that she had had lovers. Now she advertised it broadcast. His only protest was a stinging manner with her friends. She was physically repugnant to him. Her body had a soft look, not shapeless but blurred. Getting heavy under the throat. Too thick through the waist, the shoulders too wide, her breasts sag. He feared to see her in the daytime, she looked worse then. He wanted to drink with her, to make it easier to take her. He recalled her lewd visioning of sex. No wonder she sees it like that! His artistic vanity was included.

Howard missed Em, he would not from pride admit how much. Algeria guessed it, and as he neglected her more and more her jealousy of Em grew more virulent. Once Howard mentioned having seen Em.

“Howard’s pagan—his wood-woman,” explained Algeria in a sugary tone to the Hungry Soul who, with others, had come to worship.

“The sublimation to an ideal of the erotic—” began the Hungry Soul.

“Sublimation to tommyrot!” interrupted Howard violently. “Miss Tyler is—”

“Of course she is,” Algeria’s silvery voice glided in. “When you see that nice girl again, Howard, give her my love. Tell her she is a ripper, simply a ripper. Oh, no, don’t say exactly that, you know. Tell her I can never forget her. She is a person one really cares for.” A pause and Algeria added with a winning smile, “Or, no, you can tell her she is a ripper, after all. She’ll probably like that more than you or I would!”

“Damn your malice,” growled Howard with suppressed rage. The Hungry Soul was by this time obliviously discussing psychic sexual introversion with the other visitors.

“Sh‑h‑h!” whispered Algeria cautiously, with an innocent look. “You and I understand, peetie. I was only trying to take in the other stupids.”

This continuous presence of mind of Algeria’s annoyed him unbearably. Whenever she essayed to insult someone and the tables were turned she deftly took the intended victim into her confidence. Nothing could possibly dent her conceit. When Howard was most restive and irritable she never dreamed of looking within herself for the reason. She saw all his superficial defects but took no responsibility for analyzing their origin.

“I was never so bored in my life,” he complained.

“Sweetesty, it’s because other women bother you. They think they will get you away. I see that you are only nice to them. I know that you adore me, and it’s hard for you. We ought to be together alone more. But I can’t escape people. There are so many who really exist because of me.”

Howard looked at her round face drawn into a mimicry of solemnity. Algeria smiling and heavily triumphant in a crowd—even Algeria dextrously malignant in a group—was bearable. But Algeria alone and serious—unhumorous and wifely. It was too much!

She was often bored with him.

“Howard’s developing a soul,” she told Gouvain, “and after I’ve wasted myself admiring his tiresome etchings for him!”

Algeria was a true superwoman—she could not fail!

“I’m sick of things,” Howard grumbled peevishly.

“Of course you are, dearestie,” she replied, patting his cheek. “You and I will go back to Paris next winter.”

He could not insult her. Her confidence invited awe. Her superiority to pride was too gorgeous.

Since Howard had come to her Algeria now also persuaded herself that Mitra had long been secretly in love with her. Magnanimously she keyed her manner to a delicate sympathy that stirred his silent immobile amusement. She began to hate Celia for having Mitra, told herself that it was only because Celia was young and delectable physically. Algeria implied by her sympathetic attitude toward Mitra that she knew he too would some day come back to her.

When she stroked his hand he would exclaim pensively:

“Elephants!”

She wondered if he were sometimes laconically malicious, but as her emotions were not involved she resolved to content herself with his offering.

4

The brief affair of Howard and Algeria was breaking up. He showed too plainly that he was ashamed of her. Algeria was beginning to consider him no longer worth the indignities to which his attitude exposed her.

“Algeria’s all right, but as an artist she’s a joke.” Cheap Greenwich Village faker, he thought, how could I ever have—He thought of Em. Clean cut—

He never lingered near Algeria. She was cruelly active in discovering his faults to others, but when her group was gathered at her studio in the evening she tried to make Howard drunk to be rid of the annoyance of deceiving him. Their drunken carousals disgusted him. She spoke of them wittily.

“Howard and Pierre and Carmen and that Titian-haired Jewish girl had so much magic last night that finally they all fell in a Bacchic heap, didn’t they?” she said guilelessly at lunch.

“Who was on top?” inquired Celia impudently. “I was too drunk to see.”

Howard flirted outrageously. When they were alone, Howard sober, Algeria’s irritation grew crass.

“You leave that little pink-headed Jewess alone, do you hear me?”

Her eyes, too far apart, were like an angry cow’s. Algeria’s subtleties were all professional.

“Look here, Algeria,” said Howard wrathfully. “I’m going.” They were both secretly relieved at his decision.

“To leave me?” she asked incredulously. Her blank handsome face was almost pathetic.

Howard recalled their many years of varied relation, of her solace when, hungry for praise, he first began to etch. Unconsciously he thought of the future. Algeria’s self-responsibility still impressed him in spite of his disgust. He saw through her, but had to respect her volitional integrity and independence of action. Algeria had power in his world.

“I’ve got to be alone,” he said sullenly. “I must do something.”

At the very moment of parting she was convinced that he was not really bored. She was eased at his going. She imagined that she could control him better at a distance.

“I understand, dearestie. You’re very sensitive and must have time to work.” My God, she’s turning sedate again, thought Howard, thank heaven I’m getting out! “I’ll be freer this summer and we can run away to the country where not a soul can find us.” Her smile was inviolably radiant. “Peetie, you and I are the only ones who know how to follow the Dame” (so Algeria on Beauty), “but now I feel we must seek her—apart.” Algeria’s gaze was rapt—as when she repeated her poems—she seemed to behold a vision of herself and Howard, still spiritually joined in the pursuit of the artist’s Ideal as it soared before their romantically united souls.

Algeria was of the truly great. Howard was obliged to accept her interpretation. He moved back to his apartment. Not dictation but prolonged conferences with Algeria had driven him away. She plunged back into the whirl of leadership.

“Howard is so disloyal,” she complained to each of her followers. “He actually told me I looked tired the other night, and once he asked me what I was like when I was Celia’s age.” All the retainers, with the exception of Gouvain, feigned to believe that Howard was to blame.

Before going to Europe Algeria had led Gouvain publicly at the wheels of her chariot, after her return she had seized him again. On Howard’s defection her rule over Gouvain became iron. He became her courier, errand-boy, servant. He was too gentle to resist. Purchases, theater tickets, telephone messages, chores in general.

“Let Pierre do it,” she would laugh gayly whenever any manner of bothersome task was to be done.

“Poor Pierre!” wheezed good-hearted Carmen.

“Maybe he finds it easier than sleeping with her,” suggested Celia lazily.

But Gouvain occasionally contrived to see Em. Unconsciously he told Em all that was important. She had believed that Algeria was absorbing Howard’s personality. Em felt that in leaving Algeria he had come through something. He had demonstrated that he was real. Even the news that he was engrossed in one cheap love affair after another was more satisfying than having him with Algeria.

5

Once alone, Howard began to meet Em more simply and kindly on the occasions when they were accidentally thrown together. He had no feeling of nobility but, away from Algeria, he was weary of tension. Several times Em was with Les, and Howard included him in a natural salutation. Les replied correctly. Kim was relieved. She set up her easel in the Jane Street studio and tried to work again.

Les and Em sought their friends again. Genevieve was radiant. She wagged her long earrings like pendulums.

“Well! I’m beginning to believe that my poor little dinner wasn’t such a complete failure after all.” She felt a romantic necessity to believe in the relation of her two friends. It gave her a sense of escape from superficial contacts.

Genevieve was depressed by the futility of the atmosphere that surrounded her. She could not successfully intellectualize her hopelessness. This was the world of art wherein she had failed. Greenwich Village! The triumph of superficialities—and she saw nothing else! She remembered with despair the bourgeois home from which she had escaped.

Em hugged her with savage fervor. Les smiled.

“I’m going to make coffee,” Stuart announced violently.

Michael, with misty eyes, plunged precipitately into an incoherent description of a play none of the others had cared to see.

Nights and days. Em sang occasionally at her painting. One picture was showing promise, but she was not satisfied. Les worked hard at hated reviews and miscellaneous hack-work. Howard they saw occasionally. He did not even have the comfort of knowing that he was inarticulate. He was producing a stream of etchings.

Howard’s apartment held the ghost of Em. He could not live in it. He was pale and wan. I’ve got to move, he said to himself restlessly. Picking up a morning paper, he began to glance over the advertisements. “I’m going to get drunk!” he exclaimed aloud, a faint color coming into his cheeks. His eyes rested on a notice in prominent type.

“Algeria Westover’s Studio

To let furnished on long lease to refined individual loving beautiful things.

May be seen by appointment only.

Address P. Gouvain, 120 Kenilworth Place.”

Howard drew a long breath and lighted a cigarette. A privilege for ordinary mortals to occupy the dwelling she had sanctified by her presence! So exit Algeria, bless her little heart, from the stage where she had done no harm—sic transit—!

Book IV: “Em”

“I saw a little girl in tears, said the moon; she was crying over the wickedness of the world. A most beautiful doll had been given her as a present. Indeed it was a splendid doll, so fair and so fragile! Apparently it was not created to stand the rough wear and tear of this world. The brothers of the little girl, however, great mischievous boys, had fixed the doll high up in the branches of a tree and then run away. As the little girl could not reach her doll and take it down, she began to cry. Evidently the doll was crying too, for it stretched out its arms amidst the green leaves, and looked quite sad. Yes, yes, the little girl experienced some of the troubles of this world.…”

Hans Christian Andersen—“What the Moon Saw”

Chapter I

Image

“‘That is not said right,’ said the Caterpillar.

‘Not quite right, I’m afraid,’ said Alice timidly; ‘some of the words have got altered.’

‘It’s wrong from beginning to end,’ said the Caterpillar decidedly, and there was silence for some minutes.”

Lewis Carroll—“Alice in Wonderland”

1

Em and Les were pathetically glad to be together again. Their first night together they had both wept, Les silently and Em hysterically. The remembered rooms, the familiar things about them, well-known and dear surroundings. Les was timid. Em waived sex. I don’t care about our bodies. I’m at home with him. They feel that all is well at last.

They had so much in common! Les was a congenital artist who by the atmosphere of a commercial land had been railroaded into concrete activity. She was a congenital artist who was a rebel. Why should they not comfort each other? Their friends gathered closer around them. Genevieve and Stuart. Dinners together again. Toby and Tit Miller dropped in. Em forgave Tit at first sight.

“Very much good say!” He whirled her about the studio until she was breathless.

“Don’t, Tit!” she begged, dizzy and laughing. His nonsense made her feel all the world simple—no need for defense. What she called reality. He described a sweeping arc with his hat and bowed low to Les, the hat clutched theatrically to his heart. Em loved his boyish relaxation.

Toby helped her to a chair and drew another close to hers. In the penurious surroundings of his big dusty attic he experimented in chemical syntheses, and now he carefully produced from his pockets some tiny vials containing perfumes made by himself, which he solemnly bestowed on Em.

“To enable you to keep your husband’s love,” he said unctuously. Em ignored his language and thanked him effusively. “Don’t I even get a kiss?” he complained sadly. She laughed again and kissed him lightly, jumping up to escape his lingering embrace. She loved him, too. He loves me—even if I don’t let him.

“I’ll make us all some chocolate.” She tripped back and forth gayly, the cups and spoons tinkling pleasantly in her hands. Toby’s damp eyes followed her avidly. Poor Toby! He was boundlessly promiscuous in his search for the grand amour that would be the culmination of his life. Toby was a flower—a flower on a dung-hill. Em loved him for the virtues in him which he himself despised. She smiled affectionately first at him and then at Tit. When the chocolate was ready she went over and kissed Les. They all gathered contentedly around a low table. Candle-light drew them together in its vagueness. “Look out, it’s hot,” she warned solicitously.

Before they could drink, the bell rang. Em ran to the door. It was Mark and Blanche. Blanche burst excitedly into the room, giggling and patting Em and Les, oblivious of them in her own agitation. Her perfect satisfaction with herself was disarming.

“You lovely children, do you know, Mark, that I said to John just the night before Jen told me—” Without stopping for breath she was off on her endless soliloquy. All, in spite of themselves, conspired toward the perfection of her illusions.

Mark shambled in after her. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Gulping violently he kissed Em and seized Les’s hand in a spasmodic quivering grip.

“What’s the use of trying to say anything?” he said, wiping his eyes and blowing his nose shamelessly. Unheeding of Blanche’s unbroken chatter in his ear, he carelessly handed a little package to Em. She untied it and drew out a beautiful Chinese carving.

“Oh, Mark!” she expostulated, “you shouldn’t. You need the money yourself.”

“Money’s no good, you can’t buy anything with it,” he replied quaintly. Mark was utterly irresponsible as regards finances. His rent was overdue and Em’s carving had been bought with the landlord’s money. He told himself that he refused to take life seriously, and his stories concerned themselves with morbid and whimsical conceptions of annihilation, a mixture of decadence and transcendentalism, mirroring his easy yet terrible philosophy. Now, among his friends, he was giving himself simply and completely to the voluptuous feeling of affection without responsibility. “It’s good to see you together again,” he whispered to Em.

More chocolate was set forth and boisterous conversation made the rooms live.

“I have a poem here,” Les drew a paper from his desk, “new style, written to someone unknown to me. I’ll read it to you if you’ll give me your opinions on it.”

“Go on! Sure! Fine! Let’s have it.”

Les read gravely.

“To J. V.

Dickens and Balzac
Were said to have constantly
Mingled their fictions
With their real experiences.
Every one must have known
Some specimen of our mortal dust
So intoxicated
With the thought of his own person
And the sound of his own voice
As never to be able
Even to think the truth
When his own autobiography was in question.
Amiable, harmless, radiant J. V.!
Mayst thou never Wake
To the difference between thy real
And thy fondly-imagined self!”

“A fine thing, but a shade too intellectual,” said Tit oracularly as Les finished.

“I don’t call it a poem,” declared Em brusquely.

“I can’t get it at all,” Blanche admitted blithely.

Toby deigned no comment on an effusion that contained nothing erotic. Mark was lost in rapt self-communion and had heard nothing.

“You’re primarily a painter, Em, and don’t sense the subtleties of words,” argued Tit. “I seldom find myself at fault on such things. The author of that thing is a real artist, but inexperienced. Where did you get it, Les?”

“James’s Principles of Psychology, volume one, page 374.”

“Get out!” Tit looked frightened.

Les handed him a book.

“Word for word. The page is turned down.”

Tit involuntarily joined in the laughter.

“Well, this proves what I’ve always maintained, that William James was the artist and Henry the psychologist,” he retorted adroitly with an impish gesture.

They felt happy in each other’s warmth. It was late when the group broke up.

“If Stuart and Jen had only been here it would have been perfect,” gushed Blanche as good-nights were said.

“See you soon,” they each called as they filed down the stairs.

“Aren’t they imperfect dears?” demanded Em as the lower hall-door slammed after them. “And isn’t it lovely to be here together again?”

Les kissed her.

“Yes,” he said.

2

New days of life. Some of them were beautiful. Then the old tentacles feeling their way again. Tiny spun threads of doubt. Em was too careful. Deep in herself she realized this was her last chance with Les, her last chance with life. She had to rebel against the need for hiding her sharp undeviated edges of personality. Life, forcing her to restraint, made her the more unpremeditated. The world was growing dim again. Outside horrible people, living unreally according to conventional types. She tried in vain to work seriously. The promising picture had not precipitated into distinction: at the instant of hope it was gone, some paint upon a canvas. I can’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’m happy again. Am I happy—

Les, the silent Les, began to talk. Something unknown drove him. He was sitting at his desk in the waning afternoon light, his strong nose etched against the curtain behind him, his wide chin emphasized by the dark furrows at either side of his mouth. Em watched him. Her tenderness for him ached in her.

“Em.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Has your picture come out right?”

“Not yet.” She willed hope into her voice.

“I feel—I blame myself—for your not having done more. I sometimes think—I was to blame—for things—” The reason for my failure is that I’m too reasonable. The virtue of a little insanity!

Em went to him and smoothed his hair.

“It will come, Les. It’s all right.” Shadows lay under her eyes and ran down from the bridge of her delicate nose toward the edges of her mouth.

He drew a long breath. Conquering a lifetime secrecy, he fought on.

“My hardness persecuted you till you—” If I can talk I won’t feel this hindrance between us.

She placed her fingers on his lips.

“You’re not hard. I won’t have you abusing yourself. I was the one who—Let’s not talk, Les. Let’s just love each other.” She bent and laid her lips against his forehead. She feared his conscience. “I love you, Les. Don’t you know I love you?”

“I wonder if any woman can love me.” Nobody can love one who arouses contempt, as I do in Em. How had she ever left him if this perfection were not an illusion? Once before it was like this and I believed. He could not bear to risk another awakening.

“Oh, Les—” Pain. Tim was the one who wanted peace now!

He took her hand and held it to his cheek.

“I’m afraid my vanity is too crippled ever to recover, Em.” Howard Story. That Algeria woman. They were what Em went to. The kind of people she—Don’t you see I don’t dare to believe in us?

Em withdrew her hand and seated herself in a chair near the desk. Her sloping shoulders drooped, already she was tired.

“Les, you mustn’t let things grow that were never there. We must be happy now.” She was stubbornly giving.

“I’m very much older than you, Em,” he said irrelevantly. She needs something I couldn’t give, that I’ll never be able to give.

“Bosh! What’s that got to do with us? Les, you’re as morbid as—”

“I wonder if it’s the place,” he continued, perplexed. Greenwich Village. We must get away. Then maybe we—“Em, I saved quite a lot while I was alone in Chicago with my salary and expenses, let’s go somewhere together.”

“All right, sir!” She jumped from her chair and flung her arms around him. “Won’t it be dear?” she whispered.

As she released him he lighted a gas lamp and took up his papers.

“I’ve got to finish my blurb on this damned book before dinner.”

“And I’ll make a charcoal sketch for an arrangement I thought of last night.” She walked toward her work-room. “Let’s get Jen and Stuart and go to Manzinetti’s for dinner tonight. The bunch will probably all be there.”

“All right.”

They felt better.

3

Genevieve came often, usually with Stuart. Genevieve was too timidly glad, too conscious of them, did not take enough for granted. Jen is afraid for us—Em and Les had been talking again. Talk about Howard, Algeria, not about Cicely, talk.

Michael had been in, full of talk about an old connoisseur who wanted to adopt him, leave him money, or Ming vases, in his will. Michael had ostentatiously steered away from personal matters. Now Genevieve, exhibiting too much delicacy. Em’s talk with Les had unfitted her to bear Genevieve’s anxiety. Les had explained that he felt he was emotionally lacking. Otherwise Em would not have gone to Howard, he thought. She had thought, I’m too much for him.

Cicely! He loved Cicely because she needed none of his strength. Can I trust myself? Will I ever be what Les wants? If he’ll only wait! If he’ll let me grow old. Les might die. She couldn’t bear that. Better die first. Cicely had disappeared. Gouvain had told her. Les would not speak of it.

Genevieve sat in the studio and chatted almost as loquaciously as Blanche could. If Genevieve would let them see her heart. But she only talked frantically.

“Good-by, dears.” She was going. She kissed Em and held Les’s hand in both hers. Her faithful eyes were worried as she walked slowly downstairs. Is it my fault? Afraid to blame Em, she blamed Les for her doubts. I suppose I’m a damn fool, she said to herself.

As Genevieve’s footsteps died away in the hall Em lighted a cigarette and sat down to think.

“Les, do you love me?” she asked suddenly. Genevieve had said something to disturb her. Something is still wrong between Les and me, what is it?

“Of course I do, Em.”

Em thought and felt incidentally. No amount of devotion could convince her of love. In most ways she accepted from Les a responsibility for her that was absurd, yet she exercised over him a minute psychical tyranny of which he was but half aware.

“That’s a queer way to express it, Les.” I can’t take things as a matter of course.

“What do you mean, dear?” He came to her.

“You only talk about love.” He has no curiosity, she thought bitterly. Just drift—

“There’s no answer to that, Em.” His voice was tired and hurt, the lines in his face deepened. Every emotion dictated. No place to retreat into myself while I’m with her. Strength all for defense—

Em drew away from him.

“Of course not. It’s true. There’s never any answer to the truth. What you want is answers.”

He felt confused and wronged. His suspicion of himself already seemed confirmed. The change of keying was sudden and inevitable, but he could not put his finger on the subtlety beneath it. Crown of thorns. Blood on His gown … the cross … sleep flying down … He should have taken her in his arms and broken her on his heart, but he only talked hopelessly. Fevered striving for recognition. The world cold, Em needed a touch to heal her, and he offered her words.

“Because I act differently you feel that I—”

He pities himself, she thought pitilessly.

“If I only knew you felt at all!”

Les began to walk back and forth.

“I said just before Jen came in that I lacked something, Em.” Les acknowledging inferiority! The sin of being forgiven—Had they both forgotten that they were determined that life together should not be impossible?

Em rose.

“You expend just as much emotion on anybody or anything else as you have for me.”

Les’s eyes darkened, he felt numb. It’s she who shares with anybody. I don’t count. No appreciation of individuality. Invades my personality. Ignores my desire. Achievement … my novel … graves lying still … I wish Carl—Fear of losing her still ruled him.

“I don’t dare now to say what I think any more.” She always lustful for revenge, and I always frightened. Impulses, outgoings—all swallowed up in fear!

They looked at each other baffled. The trip they were to take together away from grief was forgotten.

Chapter II

Mist

“I won’t be my father’s Jack.
I won’t be my father’s Jill.
I will be the fiddler’s wife,
And have music when I will.
T’other little tune, t’other little tune,
Prythee, love, play me t’other little tune.”

“Mother Goose’s Rhymes”

1

The fact of Howard’s rather prompt desertion of Algeria had sowed poison in Em’s relation with Les. She did not realize this, I knew Howard couldn’t stand her. Did our relation really mean something to him? Em was desperate at not being able to work. She would not admit that the new Les had disappointed her unalterably.

Les had found Cicely, had met her accidentally in downtown New York. Cicely was seeking work. He had tried to be friends with her, had offered to take her to the Empire State Trust Company, to ask Mr. Sutton to employ her as young Babbitt’s assistant. Cicely had not reproached him, but had refused help, had refused to be friends. Les told it all to Em.

“Why should she hate you, Les?”

“She doesn’t. It’s the same kind of pride I should have.”

Em had hoped he would condemn Cicely. She admired him for not doing so, but she despaired.

“You must find some way to help her, Les.” A frozen hand caught Em by the throat. She knew that she would always have to share Les with Cicely, whether Cicely was there or not. I’m not big enough—

Les worked early and late. Freelancing was a hopeless campaign. He said nothing, but he was too tired to make love. Em often left him and went out. He’s happier when I’m away, she told herself. She saw Howard frequently. Greenwich Village is a neighborhood. Once he was in a restaurant with Cicely. That worried her. She felt a conspiracy of understanding from which she was excluded. Once Howard overtook Em on the street.

“Shall we have some tea?” He looked young and artless, smiling at her, a suggestion of pain hidden in his eyes. Em was sentimentally conscience-stricken that she had broken so brutally with Howard.

“I don’t mind.” She was so pleased that she was surprised at herself. It was relief to be with Howard again. He understands my inadequacies, how inevitable they are.

Unconsciously she drifted into trying to hold to Les and yet get Howard back. She explained it to herself, that a human relation had survived between them all. Em was honest, but intellectually blind. Her emotions were subtle. She was frightened that she wanted Howard again, but their past mutual cruelties in the gray of her present apathy seemed life. She inarticulately felt that Les and Howard combined would be complete. She tried to argue herself into a justification of such a situation.

Deep in Em’s unconscious self Cicely stood. Cicely was Em’s audience. Em was pathetically trying to wring, first from Les and then from Howard, some sign that she, too, was physically compelling. After Algeria, Howard could not put Em out of his mind. He wanted Em, for vanity’s sake. He needed to leave on her some mark of his power. She wanted him for stimulus. After Howard, she could not endure alone the lack of stress with Les. She would not conceal her actions.

“Les, should you mind if Howard came here occasionally?”

Les’s large brow wrinkled. His hair, swept backward over his head, was becoming streaked with gray. He thought a moment, his small powerful hands clenched. The passenger rocked the boat! Ha! Ha! Ha! Am I going insane? Yes, it’s true—

“Why do you want him, Em?” No security. Failure. Love is defenselessness before one person. Its pathos arises chiefly from the fallacy that it will be a source of comfort in a hostile world. Bah! What good thinking? He was betrayed. I am old.…

“Do you think there is any reason why we should act conventionally, Les?” Em at the moment really believed what she said. She did not notice something impelling her.

“Why risk our happiness again, Em?” He felt degraded by pleading.

“Why fear risks?” she asked valiantly. “Why not prove our happiness? That Les cared exhilarated her. Was he happy? Child of the moment, she had forgotten Howard, though they were discussing him.

“Are you sure you aren’t beginning to care for him again?” Must I be defiled by jealousy? “You think if you take risks emotionally enough they aren’t risks.”

Em was repulsed.

“Of course on your theory of the emotions that’s the obvious explanation.” She caught at anything to defend herself. I can’t tell the truth either. How like my talks with Howard!

Les felt that he knew his fatal handicap. I’m constructive. Em and Howard were both destructive. I realize I have lost.

“Why must you have him? Love can’t exist without fortitude, Em.” She won’t use will power—

Now he’s preaching to me, she thought resentfully.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. “I’m not in love with him.”

Les bowed his head. Dividing soul and body. Degrading both. Secret smiles … speak no word.…

“I make no objection,” he said.

2

Howard came. There was almost a flourish in his mien. He would never love Em again, he thought. She belongs with Lester.

“How are you, Drane?”

Les took his hand without reply. Em’s small beautiful head above her slender neck. Em’s delicacy and distinction of body, wistful boy-girl body with its hard pointing breasts. Her bravado and pathos. I can’t bear for him to see her as I see her. Damn the Village! Place where you share your money and the body of your woman—slime!

Em had put flowers on the table. She had arranged her marvelous hair carefully, wore a becoming gown Les had never seen. Howard imitated himself, displayed his social skill, charm. He was playing to Les more than to Em. He retailed a clever risqué story. Em laughed lightly.

“What poison-minded people!”

Howard flashed.

“People’s imaginations are like necessary evils in society.”

A string of neat phrases. Les appeared surly and clownish. He knew it. His smile was a dead man’s smile. Em and Howard striking fire from each other! Flowers. Hair. Gown. I will not! Anguish. Cold hollow of her breast … beauty grown foul.… He rose and grasped his hat and coat.

“You must excuse me.”

Les stumbled as he walked down the stairs, his hand on the rail.

3

When Les returned Em was alone. She lay on the bed, her thin body contorted in an agony of weeping.

Les could not speak. Will the end come? What do I want? The night outside. The moon … still pool … white arms enfold me.…

He seated himself in a chair. Morning. He was still there.

Em had gone to sleep.

Chapter III

Tie

“In the evening they talked together pleasantly, then quarrelled, then came to blows. In the morning both are ashamed and surprised, they think it must have been the result of some exceptional state of their nerves. Neat night again a quarrel and blows. And so every night until at last they realize that they are not at all educated, but savage.”

Note-Book of Anton Chekov
(Trans. S. S. Koteliansky and L. Woolf)

1

Em again gave up Howard. She could not bear Les’s hurt. Howard’s coarseness of misunderstanding had defiled her. She was convinced that she was physically incompetent. Les was withdrawn, Em was away from the studio a great deal. It humiliated her now to see Howard. She saw him several times, never with Algeria. Les at home alone, what am I running after? One day Howard overtook her again.

“Em, why are you avoiding me?”

“I want to be alone.”

“Let’s go to the park and walk.” He hailed a taxi.

“I don’t want to, Howard.” The cab-driver turned away, incensed.

“When can I come to see you again?”

“Don’t come any more.”

Hatred struggled in Howard’s eyes. The malice of women!

“Then why did you ask me at all?” His mouth twitched a little.

Em was compassionate. She was cruel to everything but helplessness.

“I’m sorry, Howard.” Her voice was soft.

He sprang to the hope of control. He was always at his best when winning. He straightened his loose shoulders.

“You can’t treat people like this, Em. You should at least allow a day or two for the holes to heal before stabbing again. No wonder you’re finding yourself isolated.”

His words reached home, she cringed under them.

“There’s no need for you to risk anything by trying to rescue the outcast,” she said sullenly.

He went on ruthlessly.

“Men run from you because you insult them without letting them sleep with you.” Howard was as unsatisfied as she or Les with the ugly lack of criteria of self-respect around them. But he was compelled to make her realize him.

“I don’t want to sleep with anybody!” she exclaimed in angry pain, tears starting to her eyes.

“Pooh! Marriage has destroyed women’s fastidiousness. A woman who sleeps with one man she detests will sleep with any man once convention is relaxed.” No one is decent any more. Why deny life as it is? Unmorality. Dirt! Can’t possess one’s own person. No form to life. I hate it, too, but I must have her back or blot her out. She’s ruined me. “You hang to Drane from fear.”

“I don’t!” she cried, helpless in her confusion and wrath.

“You’re both afraid. Every lover lives in fear. And you’ve lectured me about courage!” Howard laughed scornfully. He was riding to victory.

Em did not realize that it was her own despair that was subduing her.

“Why is it any longer your business even if it’s so?” she jerked out like a vexed schoolgirl.

Howard shrugged his shoulders. She would not come to him, but she was humbled. He could not live beneath her.

“It isn’t. Why should I worry? When you can’t get all you want, you destroy all you have. Well, it’s up to you. I’m through.”

Brawling on the street! What made her listen? The fear of not being hurt? Em shivered. She lifted her head.

“Let’s not repeat this, please. I’m glad you understand. I don’t want you or anyone else. I only want to work. Good-by.”

Howard laughed again, malicious exulting in his laugh.

“Work? It is to laugh! You won’t work. Your things get worse and worse. Instead of rhythms you’re producing ringlets!”

Em’s mouth opened and she paled as if he had struck her in the face. He walked away. Conquered! He felt happy. He was not afraid of Em any longer.

She had planned to dismiss Howard!

2

Em went home wounded and sore. Les was sitting alone in the studio. She walked by his chair, laid her hand upon his head.

“My dear!” She needed to be near him, longed for a bodily presence, a presence to touch and comfort.

His mouth trembled.

“Em, I need help. Life frightens me. I’m not up to your standard.” His voice was bitter and tired. “I wish I were a woman.”

She turned away from him. She had no excess of life to give any more. I’m weak, too.

“It’s easy to be a woman, Les. You only need to be useless.” Her painting was feeble, she knew it now, even her first best things. Nothing in the world, not even herself. The waste of suffering! She was glad he was weak and small before her. She could reach him. The man where there is no child. She turned to him again. “Les, Howard is gone.”

Les’s hands clutched his chair. Dare to think—The tree of life … angels like butterflies … a lamp held high.…

“Gone?”

“He won’t come any more.” She approached.

“Em—” Les’s shoulders heaved, but Em could hear no sound. She knelt and stroked one of his tense hands.

“Yes, darling.” Her throat ached.

“Em, we will go away.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“We’ll go away. While I was alone I saved enough. We’ll go to some far warm place—and be.” Rose-colored dreams. Minarets … closed blooms of lotus flowers … cry like a silver bird … eyes behind a veil … golden breasts.…

“Yes, Les.”

“Where there is no more struggling.” Seas with no tide … island belted with gold sand … crooning of the sea … listening shore … peace.…

“Yes, Les.” She snuggled to him. Life cannot be felt. Go from life, leave pain. It makes no difference to live. I will, she resolved, I will!

He bent and put his arms around her, his face on her shoulder, his cheek to hers. They sat clutching each other in the failing light. Les’s hour had come. She was beaten. He was already on the sea. Saffron ship … night like black hair … white fires of spume … birds in the painted sky … lonely cries in the dark … dim land … palms like harmless madmen.…

“Oh Em! You will love me!”

She clung to him.

“There’s no one but us, Les.”

Les’s world had become a holy place. Church of the sea … pale lilies of foam … chant of storms … rosaries of spray … Em’s pictures of heaven … my book, the Sacred Book … candles of God in the sky … the star of hope, star made of a lily.…

Em shuddered.

“Kiss me, Les.”

Chapter IV

“What Little Girls Are Made Of”

“I dreamed we lived in a wood, Mama,
And rested beneath its bowers,
When a butterfly came in its flaunting pride
And I chased it away to the forest wide,
And night came on and I lost my guide,
And I knew not what to do.

“I cried and I sighed in my fears, Mama,
And I loudly called for thee,
When a white-robed maiden appeared in the air,
And she flung back the locks of her golden hair,
And kissed me sweetly ere I was aware,
Saying ‘Come, little one, with me.’”

Author Unknown—“Old Lullaby”

1

As he thought of it, Les was more frightened by Em’s letting Howard go than he would have been by her clinging to them both. Change! Change after change. He feared her immediacy, he distrusted women who melt. Em knew she debited cruelly to Les the fact that she had to give up Howard entirely. She was finally quite detached about it and wondered why Les could not be. He tried to have faith.

“I knew you were fine inside, Em.”

She did not reply—she spoke of him.

“You’re good, too, Les.”

He was silent, amazed. Praise was bewildering. He grew suspicious.

“You mustn’t get mushy, Em.”

Now he was accusing her of having an ideal of him. Les was two-dimensional, a drawing, one could not feel his edges. Em was sculpture. He was outclassed. She spoke curtly.

“You’re the one who’s mushy—about yourself. Humility is a romantic emotion.” Em respected nothing that was not like herself.

“I’m not humble.”

“You’re a martyr.”

“Em—” he protested, bruised.

“Sacrifice that costs too much is an insult,” she continued remorselessly.

They were both walking about the studio, aimlessly and nervously. He was frightened. Why couldn’t she be docile? There was never any stopping-place after such a beginning. And we were going away to peace! Les was afraid to touch her, she made every contact an occasion for making him and herself feel intensely. He was the only one left whom she could hurt without paying for it. Now she hurt him even before others. Once she had kept her whip for private use, recently she had not hesitated to speak completely when their friends were present. Genevieve and Michael had witnessed the last quarrel. Soon it would be strangers! Tides.… The world. The Village coming in—Psychic living with everybody. Treachery of spirit—I’m betrayed to others.

“Em, I shall go away if you ever insist on stripping me again before outsiders,” he had said afterward.

She had rebelled furiously. I won’t be his child!

“Why don’t you go?” she had dared him.

Today he was apprehensive again. She resented his quick trepidation. How can I get through this moment without revealing myself, he thought. She was thinking indignantly, he’s insulting me by being afraid.

“Em, why can’t we be just kind?”

Em felt the same, but she rejected suggestions even though she agreed with them. She was obsessed with preserving her own contours.

“You and I have done something to each other, Les.” Her voice seemed to him callous. “We can never either of us be the same again, we tear each other.”

Les and Em knew they had to talk. It had been gathering too long. They seated themselves and began to discuss their life as if it belonged to others.

“You resent my having any dignity,” he replied spiritlessly. Wring another stimulus. Spiritual clutching and clawing. My strength for this. I shall never write.…

She ignored his words.

“Les, we’ve never possessed each other, we make each other cruel.” Em seemed only to be stating a fact.

“You’ve ignored my will, Em. You can’t find any joy in respectful and voluntary communion.” Jealous of my thoughts!

“You’ve no joy in anything,” she gibed. He’ll give me anything but what I want.

Les knew it was hopeless, he had acknowledged too much, but he went on.

“Em, you know what I have—”

“Yes, you have,” she said with quiet bitterness. “Your preconception of me still lives. I died to you a year ago.”

Her mental phrases disconcerted him. He realized that they held portent.

“Em, can’t we begin—?”

“What’s the use, Les?” she interrupted, her eyes gazing far away. “I’ve hated your ideal of me too long.”

He was too tired to argue. Bound together only by dangerous secrets!

“Please don’t, Em,” he begged.

“I can’t bear to share you, Les.” They were both tired.

Howard and Les were the same kind of artist, they both thought generally, Les even felt generally. All he wanted was his picture of himself. He marveled that failure with another hurt him so little, he did not know that alone he could never fail. His trusted mechanisms. Now that he was done—

“I can’t be anything but what I am, Em. I’m sorry.”

Em rose so suddenly that he started in his chair. She had schooled herself until she was tingling.

“You won’t be anything but words!” Why did I try to argue with him? I knew it!

The truth had no words for either of them. He rose too, his voice was colorless.

“An absolute giving of every moment and thought for a lifetime to you is only ordinary kindness,” he said slowly. “You resent one moment for myself as heartless brutality.” Clinging together just to have someone to hurt! Let me go, Em, let me live! Les’s face was set.

Em’s eyes were wide and cruel.

“I don’t want your machine!” she cried, choking. “I want myself—what I want means nothing to you—I want to be alone—”

He looked old. He could no longer suffer, but habit led him. Pity everything that lives—

“Listen, Em—”

She stood straight, her voice trembling.

“Go to Cicely Frank. She wants to stand you—God, how I pity her!”

“Em!” He moved toward her. It can’t go on. I really never expected—

“I want to get away from you!” she said shrilly, backing out of his reach. “You have no heart! You’re a ghost. You’re killing me!” Em held her hands to her head, her eyes staring. “I hate you!” she screamed, “you fool idealist!”

Her repugnance gave him freedom. He was convinced that she could live without him. He spoke decidedly.

“All right, Em.”

His relief maddened her. She struck her own face with her hands, then him. She pushed by him, seized at her coat, stumbled against the table, fumbled at the door. Her eyes were dull, she breathed hoarsely.

“Let me get out of here—I never want to see you again—”

She rushed into the hall tumultuously, with uncertain steps, leaving the door open. Les closed it. He stood thinking of himself. I’m dead, Em thought, as she rushed into the street.

2

Em returned to her hall bedroom on Charles Street. The scrawny woman looked through her spectacles curiously at Em’s strained face. The easel and Em’s trunks were never moved.

Les kept on at his tedious work. It was for himself. It seemed less distasteful somehow. He smoked a great deal, at night. Genevieve came once. She did not dare to go to Em. Les lived entirely by himself. Peaceful ghosts … separate … going … ship … sunset, sea of blood … seaweed, float like dead hair … black moonbeams … Carl go with me … forever.…

Toby found Em at Charles Street, the scrawny woman suspicious. He looked around the tiny grimy room.

“Dear girl, is it—?” Toby’s eyes were foolish and wet. Em nodded. “Do you think you could love me?” He held out his childish hands unbelievingly. He would never have asked for her till she was thrown aside.

She had to smile.

“No, Toby dear, I’ll never want anybody again.”

Toby went sadly.

Gouvain not only made love to her, he dogged her steps.

“Iss zere no hope?” he asked, late one evening. “I lofe ze ground your feets tread.” He swallowed hard. “Emilie—ma pauvre—je t’aime—je t’adore—moi—” He stammered pitifully, his beautiful eyes like a patient dog’s.

Em looked at him, suffering in her face.

“I—no—don’t—” she said, patting his arm kindly. She knew he would not do. After he had had her, it would be the same. It was a pity he was so sweet. He loved her soul because he liked her body! Another fool idealist.

He kissed her hand, gentleness in his whole being.

All grasping at straws! Em felt love was ecstasy, Les felt it was permanence. Em pondered. Love was individuals. They can’t see. Love was.

Les had hope in himself. He walked every evening downtown. At last he met Cicely. There was still no reproach in her eyes. She is kind. I must have—

“Won’t you walk on the Battery awhile before you go home, Cicely?”

Cicely shook her head. Down the cold spring street people rushed by them like driven wraiths. The high buildings rose heavily in the perspective beyond them.

“No, Les.” Her humility made her cruel to herself.

“I didn’t know you were so hard, Cicely.”

She looked at him sadly, her eyes unsoftened.

“A girl has got to have some pride, Les.”

She left him and mingled with those who hurried to the subway.

Now they called to Les, the distant places. His boyhood day-dreams back again. Laboratories and honors, shadowy friends, women, Em, all forgotten. His eyes looked out to sea, that’s the only thing big enough—The garden of the earth … sun dimmed by grief, there are not even any clouds … calling, calling … tossing arms of foam … light beyond, light falling like rain … stars, dawn, bright seeds fall to the furrowed sea … warm, the tropic sun … hair woven with gold … sleep.…

Chapter V

Love May Go On

“But ah! you should have seen me when I was sweet seventeen. I was the very moral of my poor dear mother, and she was a pretty woman, though I say it that shouldn’t. She had such a splendid mouth of teeth. It was a sin to bury her in her teeth.”

Samuel Butler—“The Way of All Flesh”

1

Genevieve, worried and timorous, finally braved the scrawny woman’s spectacles.

“May I see Miss Tyler?”

The woman pointed weirdly upward, Genevieve ascended along the gloomy stairway and knocked softly at the mysterious door. Em opened to her. Genevieve tried not to see the white drawn face and thin arms, the tumbled bed behind Em, paper bags, food. Em hasn’t been out to eat.

“Jen—what—” Em spoke dully but her eyes shone unnaturally.

“Darling, I just came!” Genevieve gathered Em in her arms and held her.

Em attempted to smile, haggard sick smile. Sunshine came through the window behind her. Back yards. Cold walls. Tiny gray-green leaves on the thin tree brushing the window. Em’s handkerchiefs, stockings, hung up to dry.

“Thank you, Jen, but I don’t need anybody.”

Genevieve would not be rebuffed.

“Em, what frightful things have happened in these few days?” Her eyes filled. “You haven’t a cent. You don’t have to tell me. Eating this way. Your friends—I’m—”

“Not at all, Jen, all the frightful things happened before.” I don’t want money. I could go out.

Genevieve’s strong wise eyes in her perplexed little face. She did not dare ask questions, she was baffled. Life horrible—we’ve got to save her—

“Michael has actually taken a job with his connoisseur, as secretary, of course there’s no work attached to it—Blanche and her John are to be married, just think, poor man!—Mark has sold four stories and already spent all the money.” Genevieve pretended that something to interest was needed. She was talking for opportunity. “Tit is in love and has written an awful poem to his Columbine, who’s a pretty little idiot. Who with brains could stand Tit? He never felt anything real in his life—I saw Les a day or two ago, he’s looking rotten.” She glanced keenly at Em for her effect. “Women are terrible creatures, Em, we want the moon. Have you painted any since you came here?” Genevieve paused for breath, her hands still holding Em’s. What must I do? Her own fastidiousness would not let her go further with Em’s futile reticences. I must tell Les.

“No,” said Em vacantly. They blame me. They’re sorry for Les. I have no one.

“You’d smile at the pretty girl who now adorns my walls—magazine cover—I posed for it in a mirror. It does amuse me when I think of my serious art-student days. Life grinds us—”

Genevieve talked on industriously, believing that she was doing good. She said nothing of her own worry, of Stuart’s terrible depression. Her shallow cynical snapshots were the same they had always been, her beautiful feeling was unchanged, but Em read into it that the last approval had been removed. They’ve gone back on me. Les is right. I’m unfitted for human life. I’m alone.

Genevieve went away, miserable. Her warm kiss left Em cold. Enmity. Les is theirs. Being an idealist saves lots of trouble! In America a lack of sentimentality is more embarrassing than a lack of money. But Em was still uncontaminated. I’ll be myself! She dressed with trembling fingers and went out. She forgot her hollow cheeks, her almost emaciated form, forgot that she looked ill and piteous. It was growing dusk. She had no plan. She almost ran along the streets. She did not know where she was. Men looked at her. She had visions of men devouring her with their eyes. She was naked in their arms. Mitra! In the middle of the Square she met him. She was oblivious to the people about them.

He smiled coldly, a smile for himself. His hardness was something precious to her. She needed his simplicity of selfishness. At least he wants my body. She stood looking boldly into his opaque eyes, she opened and shut her mouth.

“Speak!” he commanded shortly.

“Mitra, do you want to love me? Take me.”

His abysmal vanity had waited. His immobile eyes were like black beads. There was no move, no gesture. He almost whispered.

“Little red snake, you ought to be killed. If your naked body knelt before me I would not touch it.” He moved slowly away, his face unchanged.

Em wanted to laugh hysterically. Not even a harlot without pay. She walked unsteadily back to her room. Some place to hide. Away from the Village—away from all the world!

When she went in, Les was there. His responsibility for her would not die. He wanted nothing else. He could not keep away. His conscience dragged him back. His glance was troubled. Her eyes.… He took her in his arms. She was cold and trembling. Her eyes stared and her mouth was loose. They both felt an unspoken horror of the poverty-stricken little room. Les blamed himself for her being there.

“Em, we have nobody but us.” He held her tenderly. “Em, let’s be good to each other—won’t you? Em—” He sobbed once as her cold face touched his. “Em—I—let’s not expect too much—Em—let’s—” He could not say anything more. He refuses to resent, she thought with vague surprise. She scarcely had heard his words. He helped her to remove her coat and hat. The room was cold, he lighted a little kerosene stove and sat down, pulling her to his knees. “Won’t you come back, Em? Oh, Em—” He leaned against her and cried as a punished child cries.

She tried to speak. Why don’t I say anything?

“All right,” she answered at last. Her voice sounded far off. She could not realize she had said it. Life was too dim.

“Shall we go now?” he asked gently. He was careful. He knew no one had ever forced Em.

“Don’t make me do anything. Don’t make me go now. Don’t—” I can’t see. I must think, I must think. Who is taking me now? Men—He pities me. I can’t be pitied.

The scrawny woman was moving warningly in the hall outside. Les rose and put on his big overcoat.

“When, Em?” He kissed her soothingly. She stared at him blankly. I am blind. Is he here? Who wants me? “Shall I come in the morning?” His voice is so kind! Am I sick? “Shall I come in the morning?” he repeated.

“No, not then. No, not then.” What does he want? I can’t do anything.

“When, Em?” he insisted, his arm around her. The light from the oil-stove, like a dancing flower on the wall behind her, annoyed him. It was all unreal to him, too, but he ignored the feeling.

“Some time. I don’t know.” Are we dead? Why is it all dark?

“Tomorrow night, then?” His experience misled him, he should have carried her away.

“All right.” Em was numb.

“We’ll go to dinner together.” He was kind. Hope would cure her.

Why is he always the same? She was perplexed. No, I want him to be that way. What does it mean? Les kissed her again and went out. I can’t think. She lay down on the bed, her clothes on. I can’t think. What is the matter? I’m tired.

2

Les set out from Jane Street after breakfast, peddling hack-work, timely stuff, special articles, feature stories, human interest, captions, bunk. Why? Was there still courage? There was no success! Yawning girls, irritable editors, insulting advertising managers. He went back to the studio. Crushed and discouraged. The fat Polish janitress handed him a cablegram.

“Mlle. E. Tyler.”

“Bad news it is not?” the janitress said, eyeing the envelope fearfully.

Les opened it. Part of the words started out at him.

“Vos peintures—honneur—grand prix—mes compliments—Lepelletier.”

“No, it’s good news!” exclaimed Les joyfully. “Mrs. Drane has just had some great luck.”

“I will be glad for you,” replied the woman shyly. She was, however, already condemning Em for her absence.

Les ran up the stairs and threw down his portfolio, then descended with all his speed to the street again and started happily for Em’s place. I must write Carl about it—and we’ll get Jen and Stuart and the whole bunch and have a big blowout tonight. Em is—Now she can paint. I can write.… It began to drizzle. I won’t believe it’s over. Something outside us will save us. It’s all right now. The rain increased. Golden liquor of rain … wind dallying with the mists.… We are safe. The trees guard the streets.… We’ll go away now, and work at last. Our star has bowed.… He felt delirious—happy delirium. Happy. We haven’t been happy in so long. We must!

Something in Les made him whistle gayly as he strode quickly along.

3

Em was in her hall bedroom. The sunlight made a golden pool on the faded carpet. She looked out into the back yard. The lonely tree, young leaves prematurely blackening and shriveling, half-washed clothes hanging to dry.

She rose and rearranged her dress neatly, brushed out her hair. I will think now. The Village—Howard—Algeria—Mitra—who—

Les. She knew she was a victim of his sacrifice. I destroy him. She laughed. That is life. Eat and grow fat! I’m so sorry for people.

Les. Meaningless acceptance. The land of reticence. A receiver of the dead! Oh, I can’t be invisible with them before me! I must live or kill life! The fear of fear. Iron hand, I’m choking—I must die. Then I won’t worry him—or anybody. I’ll be tranquil and sure, like him.

I don’t know whether I’m crazy or not, something hurts me so, round and round! My work is gone forever—gone—Oh, don’t everybody go away from me! Anything, that is like love! Silver gong—ring!—ring!—Em was in the power of the unknown.

Les’s secret peace. She was sure that when it was over she could rest. She felt she could not leave the room until it was done. Something kept her from putting it into words. She sat down to think it out. Trying to think—A belated fly buzzed feebly behind the curtain. The clock annoyed her with its irrelevance. Noises from the street bothered her. She tried to make herself unconscious of them.

I must think. She sat rigid, her knees drawn together in a narrow posture, her hands clenched, her white knuckles peering at her like white eyes. She was ashamed that she could not live. She stared dizzily, her eyes wide, the pupils unseeing, then her unsteady gaze came back. I’m not going to die. She tried to convince herself, looking dumbly at her strained hands, only half perceiving them.

Her breath stopped as the memory of the night she left Les came again. The thought of death was so much easier than the thought of that night. Her cheeks were gray under their splashes of rouge. Hatred leaped to her head. Her hands were tortured. She swerved like one who is struck. Her body jerked involuntarily. Light life! Lives of—what? Bohemian death. She rose and turned on the gas and flung herself on the narrow bed.

There was a gentle hissing sound. The indefinable smell of the close room mingled with the smell of the gas. It did not penetrate her understanding. She imagined she was shrinking up. She loved death and she was afraid of it. I am dead. I could endure no more. Her senses became unbearably acute. Every thread in the curtains was intense. She moved slightly. It seemed as though Les had touched her. She spoke tenderly as if they were alone.

“Les—Les—”

Iron hands again on her breasts. She whimpered, little inarticulate sounds in her throat. She hated herself for dying.

Her cramped hands unclenched, they were flushed and the nails were blue. A gentle color had come back to her cheeks and her eyes were clear, beautiful violet rings under them, tiny freckles over the bridge of her delicate nose. Her pale lips drooped apart wistfully, a bar of sunshine leaped between the curtains and trembled on her white teeth. The power of violence made her beautiful.

An hour later a knock on the door and Les’s jubilant voice.

“Em! Em!”

4

At San Francisco Les found a tramp clearing for Suva.

The ship goes out.

Clotted sky … night closing eyes of the sun with soft fingers … fold giant wings … buoy … bells of death … dead bury their dead … fame!… art is dead … a wordless Book … moon pour balm from your pale cup.…

“… white memory
Of a tropic sea,
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.”

Morning. Above, gay clouds. Chariots of the air … the unknown isles … a kind place … hills of amethyst … more life, more life … the palimpsest … cool medicine of the ideal … arms of peace … moons like breasts … the finger-tips of the holy Spirit … I don’t need Carl.…

This was his reward.

The End

Transcriber’s Notes

- In section III-V-2 there are a few lines of verse with strange hyphenization. They have been maintained.

- New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

- Some clear typographical and spelling errors have been corrected.

- The table of contents was tweaked from the original for this edition to include a list of the sections in each chapter

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Table of Contents

Sinbad
Contents
Dramatis Personæ

Book I: “Les”

- Chapter I Mirage

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

- Chapter II Eyes a Year After

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9

- Chapter III The Ocean

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7

- Chapter IV A Point of Time

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8

Book II: Howard

- Chapter I

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

- Chapter II

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Chapter III

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Chapter IV

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Chapter V

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4

- Chapter VI

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Book III: Algeria

- Chapter I

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6

- Chapter II

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

- Chapter III

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6

- Chapter IV

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

- Chapter V

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5

Book IV: “Em”

- Chapter I

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Chapter II

- 1
- 2
- 3

- Chapter III

- 1

- 2

- Chapter IV

- 1

- 2

- Chapter V

- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4

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