She came to the train, and although he declared vehemently that he disliked ‘being seen off,’ he was secretly delighted. ‘One says such silly things merely because one feels one must say something. And those silly things remain in the memory out of all proportion to their value.’ But she insisted. ‘Good-byes are always serious to me, Tom. One never knows. I want to see you to the very last minute.’ She had this way of making him feel little things significant with Fate. But another little thing also was in store for him. As the train moved slowly out he noticed some letters in her hand; and one of them was addressed to Warsaw. The name leaped up and stung him — Jaretzka. A spasm of pain shot through him. She was leaving in the morning, he knew.…
‘Write to me from Warsaw,’ he said. ‘Take care! We’re moving!’
‘I’ll write every day, my dearest Tom, my boy. You won’t forget me. I shall see you in a fortnight.’
He let go the little hand he held till the last possible minute. The bells drowned her final words. She stood there waving her hand with the unposted letters in them, till the station pillars intervened and hid her from him.
And this time no ‘silly last things’ had been said that could ‘stay in the memory out of all proportion to their value.’ It was something he had noticed on the envelope that stayed — not the husband’s name, but a word in the address, a peculiar Polish word he happened to know:— ‘Tworki’ — the name of the principal maison de santé that stood just outside the city of Warsaw.…
Half an hour, perhaps an hour, he sat smoking in his narrow sleeping compartment, thinking with a kind of intense confusion out of which no order came.… At Pontarlier he had to get out for the Customs formalities. It was midnight. The stars were bright. The keen spring air from the wooded Jura Mountains had a curious effect, for he returned to his carriage feeling sleepy, the throng of pictures drowned into calmness by one master-thought that reduced their confusion into order. He looked back over the past weeks and realised their intensity. He had lived. There was a change in him, the change of growth, development. He loved. There was now a woman who was his entire world, essential to him. He was essential to her too. And the importance of this ousted all lesser things, even the senior partnership. This was the master-thought — that he now lived for her. He was ‘real’ even as she was ‘real,’ each to the other real. The Wave had lifted him to a level never reached before. And it was rising still.…
He fell asleep on this, to dream of a mighty stream that swept them together irresistibly towards some climax that he never could quite see. She floated near to save him. She floated down. Her little hands were stretched. It was a gorgeous and stupendous dream — a dream of rising life itself — rising till it would curve and break and fall, and the inevitable thing would happen that would bring her finally into his hungry arms, complete, mother and woman, a spiritual love securely founded on the sweet and wholesome earth.…
CHAPTER XI.
During the brief separation of a fortnight Tom was too busy in London to allow himself much reflection. Absence, once the first keen sense of loss is over, is apt to bring reaction. The self makes an automatic effort to regain the normal life it led before the new emotion dislocated the long-accustomed routine. It tries to run back again along the line of least resistance that habit has made smooth and easy. If the reaction continues to assert its claim, the new emotion is proved thereby a delusion. The test lies there.
In Tom’s case, however, the reaction was a feeble reminder merely that he had once lived — without her. It took the form of regret for all the best years of his life he had endured — how, he could not think — without this tender, loving woman at his side. That is, he recognised that his love was real and had changed his outlook fundamentally. He could never do without her from this moment onwards. She equally needed him. He would never leave her.… Further than that, for the present, he did not allow himself to think. Having divined something of her tragedy, he accepted the definite limitations. Speculations concerning another he looked on as beside the point. As far as possible he denied himself the indulgence in them. But another thing he felt as well — the right to claim her, whether he exercised that right or not.
Concerning his relationship with her, however, he did not deny speculation, though somehow this time the perspective was too vast for him to manage quite. There was a strange distance in it: he lost himself in remoteness. In either direction it ran into mists that were interminable, as though veils and curtains lifted endlessly, melting into shadowy reaches beyond that baffled all enquiry. The horizons of his life had grown so huge. This woman had introduced him to a scale of living that he could only gaze at with wondering amazement and delight, too large as yet to conform to the order that his nature sought. He could not properly find himself.
‘It feels almost as if I’ve loved her before like this — yet somehow not enough. That’s what I’ve got to learn,’ was the kind of thought that came to him, at odd moments only. The situation seemed so curiously familiar, yet only half familiar. They were certainly made for one another, and the tie between them had this deep touch of the inevitable about it that refused to go. That notion of the soul’s advance in a spiral cropped up in his mind again. He saw her both coming nearer and retreating — as a moving figure against high light leaves the spectator uncertain whether it is advancing or retiring. He would have liked to talk to Tony all about it, for Tony would be sympathetic. He wanted a confidant and turned instinctively to his cousin.… She already understood more than he did, though perhaps not consciously, and therein lay the secret of her odd elusiveness. Yet, in another sense, his possession was incomplete because a part of her still lay unawakened. ‘I must love her more and more and more,’ he told himself. But, at the same time, he took it for granted that he was indispensable to her, as she was to him.
These flashes of perception, deeper than anything he had experienced in life hitherto, came occasionally while he waited in London for her return; and though puzzled — his straightforward nature disliked all mystery — he noted them with uncommon interest. Nothing, however, could prevent the rise upwards of the Wave that bore the situation on its breast. The affair swept him onwards; it was not to be checked or hindered. He resigned direction to its elemental tide.
The faint uneasiness, also, recurred from time to time, especially now that he was alone again. He attributed it to the unsatisfied desire in his heart, the knowledge that as yet he had no exclusive possession, and did not really own her; the sense of insecurity unsettled him, the feeling that she was open to capture by any one— ‘who understands and appreciates her better than I do,’ was the way he phrased it sometimes. He was troubled and uneasy because so much of her lay unresponsive to his touch — not needing him. While he was climbing up to reach her, another, with a stronger claim, might step in — step back — and seize her.
It made him smile a little even while he thought of it, for her truth and constancy were beyond all question. And then, suddenly, he traced the uneasiness to its source. There was ‘another’ who had first claim upon her — who had it once, at any rate. Though at present some cloud obscured and negatived that claim, the cloud might lift, the situation change, the claim become paramount again, as once it surely had been paramount. And, disquieting though the possibility was, Tom was pleased with himself — he was so naïve and simple towards life — for having discerned it clearly. He recognised the risk and thus felt half prepared in advance.… In another way it satisfied him too. With this dream-like suggestion that it all had happened before, he had always felt that a further detail was lacking to complete the scene he half remembered. Something, as yet, was wanting. And this item needed to make the strange repetition of the scene fulfil itself seemed, precisely, the presence of ‘another.’
Their intercourse, meanwhile, proved beyond words delightful during the following weeks, when, after her return from Warsaw, she kept her word and helped him in the prosaic business of furnishing his flat and settling down, as in a
hundred other details of his daily life as well. All that they did and said together confirmed their dear relationship and established it beyond reproach. There was no question of anything false, illicit, requiring concealment: nothing to hide and no one to evade. In their own minds their innocence was so sure, indeed, that it was not once alluded to between them. It was impossible to look at her and doubt: nor could the most cynical suspect Tom Kelverdon of an undesirable intrigue with the wife of another man. His acquaintance, moreover, were not of the kind that harboured the usual ‘worldly’ thoughts; he went little into society, whereas the comparatively few Londoners she knew were almost entirely — he discovered it by degrees — people whose welfare in one way or another she had earnestly at heart. It was a marvel to him, indeed, how she never wearied of helping ungrateful folk, for the wish to be of service seemed ingrained in her. Her first thought on making new acquaintances was always what she could do for them, not with money necessarily, but by ‘seeing’ them in their proper milieu and planning to bring about the conditions they needed in order to realise themselves fully. Failure, discontent, unhappiness were due to wrong conditions more than to radical fault in the people themselves; once they ‘found themselves,’ the rest would follow. It amounted to a genius in her.
It seemed the artist instinct that sought this unselfish end rather than any religious tendency. She felt it ugly to see people at issue with their surroundings. Her religion was humanity, and had no dogmas. Even Tony Winslowe, now in England again, came in for his share of this sweet fashioning energy in her; much to his own bewilderment and to Tom’s amusement.…
The summer passed towards early autumn and London emptied, but it made no difference to them. Tom had urgent work to do and was absorbed in it, never forgetting for a moment that he was now a Partner in the Firm. He spent frequent week-ends at Madame Jaretzka’s Kentish bungalow, where she had for companion at the moment an Irish cousin who, as Tom easily guessed, was also a dependant. This cousin had been invited with her child, Molly, for the summer holidays, and these summer holidays had run on into three months at least.
A tall, thin, angular woman, of uncertain manners and capricious temperament, Mrs. Haughstone had perhaps lived so long upon another’s bounty that she had come to take her good fortune for granted, and permitted herself freely two cardinal indulgences — grumbling and jealousy. Having married unwisely, in order to better herself rather than because she loved, her shiftless husband had disgraced himself with an adventuress governess, leaving her with three children and something below £150 a year. Madame Jaretzka had stepped in to bring them together again: she provided schooling abroad, holidays, doctors, clothes, and all she could devise by way of helping them ‘find themselves’ again, and so turning their broken lives to good account. With the husband, sly, lazy, devoid of both pride and honesty, she could do little, and she was quite aware that he and his wife put their heads together to increase the flow of ‘necessaries’ she generously supplied.
It was a sordid, commonplace story, sordidly treated by the soured and vindictive wife, whose eventual aims upon her saviour’s purse were too obvious to be mistaken. Even Tom perceived the fact without delay. He also perceived, behind the flattering tongue, an acid and suspicious jealousy that regarded new friends with ill-disguised alarm. Mrs. Haughstone thought of herself and her children before all else. She mistook the impersonal attitude of her benefactress for credulous weakness. A new friend was hostile to her shameless ambitions and disliked accordingly.… Tom scented an enemy the first time he met her. To him she expressed her disapproval of Tony, and vice versa, while to her hostess she professed she liked them both— ‘but’: the ‘but’ implying that men were selfish and ambitious creatures who thought only of their own advantage.
His country visits, therefore, were not made happier by the presence in the cottage of this woman and her child, but the manner in which the benefactress met the situation justified the respect he had felt first months before. It increased his love and admiration. Madame Jaretzka behaved unusually. That she grasped the position there could be no doubt, but her manner of dealing with it was unique. For when Mrs. Haughstone grumbled, Madame Jaretzka gave her more, and when Mrs. Haughstone yielded to jealousy, Madame Jaretzka smiled and said no word. She won her victories with further generosity.
‘Another face that has to be rescued?’ Tom permitted himself to say once, after an unfortunate scene in which his hostess had been subtly accused of favouritism to another child in the house. He could hardly suppress the annoyance and impatience that he felt.
‘Oh, I never thought about it in that way,’ she answered with her little laugh, quite unruffled by what had happened. ‘The best way is to help them to — see themselves. Then they try to cure themselves.’ She laughed again, as though she had said a childish thing instead of something distinctly wise. ‘I can’t cure them,’ she added. ‘I can only help.’
Tom looked at her. ‘Help others to see themselves — as they are,’ he repeated slowly. ‘So that’s how you do it, is it?’ He reflected a moment. ‘That’s being impersonal. You rouse no opposition that way. It’s good.’
‘Is it?’ she replied, as though guiltless of any conscious plan. ‘It seems the natural thing to do.’ Then, as he was evidently preparing for discussion in his honest and laborious way, she stopped him with a look, smiling, sighing, and holding up her little finger warningly. He understood. Analysis and argument she avoided always; they obscured the essential thing; here was the intuitive method of grasping the solution the instant the problem was stated. Detailed examination exhausted her merely. And Tom obeyed that look, that threatening finger. In little things he invariably yielded, while in big things he remained firm, even obstinate, though without realising it.
Her head inclined gracefully, acknowledging her victory. ‘That’s one reason I love you, Tom,’ she told him as reward; ‘you’re a boy on the surface and a man inside.’
Tom saw beauty flash about her as she said it; emotion rose through him in a sudden tumult; he would have seized her, kissed her, crumpled her little self against his heart and held her there, but for the tantalising truth that the thing he wanted would have escaped him in the very act. The loveliness he yearned for, craved, was not open to physical attack; it was a loveliness of the spirit, a bird, a star, a wild flower on some high pinnacle near the snow: to obtain it he must climb to where it soared above the earth — rise up to her.
He laughed and took her little finger in both hands. He felt awkward, big and clumsy, a giant trying to catch an elusive butterfly. ‘You turn us all round that!’ he declared. ‘You turn her,’ nodding towards the door, ‘and me,’ kissing the tip quickly, ‘and Tony too. Only she and Tony don’t know you twiddle them — and I do.’
She let him kiss her hand, but when he drew nearer, trying to set his lips upon the arm her summer dress left bare, she put up her face instead and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Her free hand made a caressing gesture across his neck and shoulder, as she stood on tiptoe to reach him. The mother in her, not the woman, caressed him dearly. It was wonderful; but the surge of mingled emotions clouded something in his brain, and a string of words came tumbling out in a fire of joy and pain. ‘You’re a queen and a conqueror,’ he said, longing to seize her, yet holding himself back strongly. ‘Somewhere I’m your helpless slave, but somewhere I’m your master.’ The protective sense came up in him. ‘It’s too delicious! I’m in a dream! Lettice,’ he whispered, ‘it’s my Wave! The Wave is behind it! It’s behind us both!’
For an instant she half closed her eyelids in the way she knew both pleased and frightened him. Invariably this gave her the advantage. He felt her above him when she looked like this, he kneeling with hands outstretched, yearning to be raised to where she stood. ‘You’re a baby, a poet, and a man rolled into a dear big boy,’ she said quickly, moving towards the door away from him. ‘And now I must go and get my garden hat, for it’s time to meet Tony and Moyra at the train, and as you have s
o much surplus energy to-day we’ll walk through the woods instead of going in the motor.’ She waved her hand and vanished behind the door. He heard the patter of her feet as she ran upstairs.
He went to the open window, lit his pipe, leaned out with his head among the climbing roses, and thought of many things. Great joy was in him, but behind it, far down where he could not reach it quite, hid a gnawing pain that was obscure uneasiness. Pictures came floating across his mind, rising and falling, sometimes rushing hurriedly; he saw things and faces mixed, his own and hers chief among them. Her little finger pointed to a star. He sighed, he wondered, he half prayed. Would he ever understand, rise to her level, possess her for his very own? She seemed so far beyond him. It was only part of her he touched.
The faces fluttered and looked into his own, one among them an imagined face — the husband’s. It was a face with light blue eyes, moreover. He saw Tony’s too, frank, laughing, irresponsible, and the face of the Irish girl who was Tony’s latest passion. Tony could settle down to no one for long. Tom remembered suddenly his remark at Zakopané months ago, that the bee never sipped the last drop of honey from the flower.… His thoughts tumbled and flew in many directions, yet all at once. Life seemed very full and marvellous; it had never seemed so intense before; it bore him onwards, upwards, forwards, with a rush beyond all possible control and guidance. He acknowledged a rather delicious sense of helplessness. The Wave was everywhere behind and under him. It was sweeping him along.
Then thought returned to Tony and the Irish girl who were coming down for the Sunday, and he smiled to himself as he recalled his cousin’s ardent admiration at a theatre party a few nights ago in town. Tony had something that naturally attracted women, dominating them too easily. Was he heartless a little in the business? Would he never, like Tom, settle down with one? His thought passed to the latest capture: there were signs, indeed, that here Tony was caught at last.
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 171