“What is this,” he said to her quizzically, “an amatory championship?” And what had happened to women, he wondered, looking at her. Once a woman had built up a man, lent him whatever she had; because his glory was hers, because then a woman was only so great as the monument of her man. But these strange days, when women were out in the world, on their own, competing with men on the men’s own level, they seemed temporarily to have got ahead, to be going still farther while man, surprised, exhausted in the fight, sat down with open mouth in a stopping-place in the road. But that the women weren’t satisfied with their victory he could plainly see, reading something hollow in Elizabeth’s pained, triumphant look. Where once they fought their men because the men were stronger, now they seemed sworn to continue the fight in bitterness because the men were weaker. She stood tough and straight as a soldier, a brittle tin soldier sticking defiantly out of some child’s Christmas stocking. He felt sorry for her, standing in her lonely strength, wondered why she felt it necessary to tilt her chin at such an angle, why she grew thinner and somehow younger each time he saw her (between her strange adventures) as though the years were giving nothing to her. “I guess it’s all right, Betsey,” he said anxiously, “only I didn’t raise my girl to be a soldier.”
She returned his look, ironic, and he had the odd impression that himself was looking reproachfully at himself. “ ‘You’ve got to be free, my dear, free as a man, you’ve got to play the man’s game and beat him at it.’ ”
“Check,” he admitted ruefully; “hats off to the elephant’s sister; do you remember all the stupid things that everyone has said to you . . . Only,” he said doubtfully, almost to himself, “half the fun to a man is having a woman a little weaker than himself. It’s easy enough,” he said, “for a man to grow indifferent to a woman he thinks is his equal; being weak is a woman’s strongest weapon in the old sex struggle.” He thought with clarity of Emmett. “Virility, after all, is partly a matter of vanity. Dependence, of a sort, is what endears a man, what binds him. . . .”
“You are thinking of the other part of your ménage à trois,” said Elizabeth; and smiled so certainly that he had to take his hand off the door-knob to deny it and in denying it admitted it, and admitting it discovered that he wished he could deny it. “The ménage à toi, I should say.” She stood smiling that still smile so awfully like himself, daring him to go in to Emmett and daring him to stay with her, so that in the end he stood there helplessly. His mind was torn as it always was faced with the smallest choice; and he felt inside him Emmett’s agony as he must sit staring at that door remaining closed so long before his eyes.
He had caught a glimpse of Elizabeth as Bruno had gone to her room, standing with her dress falling off one shoulder; he had seen with what terrible swiftness Bruno had shut the door. What might go on between a man and woman behind closed doors was still a mystery to him. Afraid to guess, afraid to put his scanty intellectual knowledge into images, the possibilities although remote were infinite and black. He sat drinking from the whiskey bottle and staring at the blankness of the door until suddenly staring at the door (however blank it was) became stupendously indelicate, making him a party to what went on behind it. His blood beat in a terrible way; he pressed his hands over his eyes to shut out the images he had forbidden and on his eyelids as on some awful screen the figure of Elizabeth was repeated, a green dress falling from one shoulder.
“Can I help it,” said Elizabeth, lofty and bitter, “if I have as much guts as most of the men I see about town.”
This Bruno accepted somehow as a personal blow and bowed his head to its validity. He moved nearer to her (feeling he abandoned Emmett with every inch he departed from that door), thinking that what strength she had could complement his weakness, almost as though they must have changed places somewhere until he almost became the woman and she might be the man. He lifted his eyes. She was strong and staunch, suddenly brave before him, like some very truthful, clear-sighted child. Her chin was raised to a forbidding angle like a soldier about to strike or a little girl trying not to cry; but there was also a hardness, a brittle something about her that frightened him back, repellent almost to whatever there was left in him of manliness.
“Guts,” he said. “You’ve got more guts than any man. You’ve got so much it’s disgusting. When a woman goes in for having guts,” he tormented her (as well as himself), “she has no sense of delicacy, she goes twice as far as any man.”
Her chin went higher, her face went colder with a clear purity of outline that cut through the air like a knife. “Somebody’s got to have the guts,” she said, shrugging. They eyed each other across the space that she had rendered crystal-clear and sharp. “I’ve got plenty of guts,” she said, “guts to endure anything. But I haven’t any nerve, I haven’t got the nerve to do anything about it.” Her face was like a cruel and delicate steel blade.
“We’d better be going,” Bruno said quietly.
“Why yes,” said Elizabeth, “the bottle-baby must be champing at the bit.”
He ignored her, taking out his watch to lend naturalness to their going. “My God! it’s almost twelve! Jeffrey will have made a fool of himself before we get there.” He felt miserable and hopeless, as one does in dreams, wandering round in circles and never quite catching the bus. The worst of it was that the party had lost importance in his consciousness; he was a man going mechanically to do his duty. “Will you hurry, Elizabeth,” he said, feeling that he must wait for her, that he could not go out and face Emmett alone.
She collected her gloves and handkerchief with the coolness of a much older woman of the world than twenty-six; it hurt him to see her child’s face gaze with no pleasure for a last perfunctory glance at the mirror; to see her childish slender arms swing the wrap about her shoulders with the air of one accustomed to doing things for herself—and a little too as though she were in the habit of leaving places. She stood on tiptoe again in her silver slippers, leaning toward the mirror, running her little finger over the red of her lips; he could see that her eye was not following the finger’s journey. “We are scared till the blood in our veins runs thin and we must hop from one person to the next because . . .”
“What?” he cried, astonished, frightened.
“Oh that,” she said, laughing, turning (and he saw her lips were much too red); “that’s a quotation from a musical comedy in good old Paris. Off to the party!” she cried, swinging her long black gloves. “Off in a cloud of dust! My ears hurt,” she said querulously, “there’s a ringing in them.”
“Too much alcohol,” he said. He took her arm and felt that her skin was ice-smooth like the icy purity of her face. He went out with her, feeling the comfort that attends walking naturally in step with another person, even though it might be walking to a funeral; and he had the feeling, part relief and partly fear, that they had left something or other in the room behind them.
The third movement, the scherzo, Autumn—the gayest of them all; dry leaves circled by the wind, branches crackling on the violin, birds escaping pianissimo, even the cello grown playful as a cello can, the melody skittish and bright. . . .
“My uncle,” said Mr. Tevander with the defiance of the weak, “was a very fine rider and he claimed that he was never run away with.”
“There is no good rider,” said Mrs. Stanhope severely, “who has not been run away with.”
“My uncle,” continued Mr. Tevander desperately, “was a very fine rider and he always said that it is not a runaway unless the rider tries to stop his horse; and my uncle,” he met Mrs. Stanhope’s eye brazenly, “never tried to stop one.”
“We would have,” said Mrs. Stanhope acidly, “to ask the horse about that.”
Miss Ermine-tail’s laugh was a hearty yawn, remnant of the days when she had bothered with the whole process rather elaborately. Nowadays she omitted the details, merely opened her mouth wide and gave the concluding yelp. She yelped now and plucked at Mr. Merriwell’s sleeve. “Did you hear, G. F., did you he
ar what Mrs. Stanhope said, we’d have to ask the horse about that!” Mrs. Stanhope complacently snorted and Mr. Merriwell who remembered when he had dandled Ermine-tails upon his knee patted her very very kindly. “Oh look,” said Mrs. Stanhope in a hushed and reverential voice, “the Ballisters; God bless them.” They all sustained a moment’s silence like the moment after grace, and Mr. Tevander felt himself forgiven for his uncle.
And March (remembering his coachman days when he drove Merle’s father over Brooklyn Bridge and both of them wondering if the Bridge would hold, yet even then aware each of his given place in an ordered world and holding no converse from their distances) humbly and happily drew back the portières and would have scattered roses if he could: for the Ballisters were all that were left to him of blizzards and top-hats and silver-headed canes.
“Oh look, the Ballisters,” said Mrs. Draper, coming to.
“The Ballisters,” said Miss Titcomb and Miss Henley-Star, Miss Cracken and Miss Milliken.
“My God, the Ballisters,” groaned Al.
Someone tapped Arturo on the shoulder. For the smallest fraction of a second Arturo closed his eyes and admitted a dazzling flash of dream. For he never played The Symphony without a faint belief that at its end some connoisseur would recognize it: some party would burst into applause behind his back: ‘Bravo, bravo, Teresca!’ He snapped to attention and threw over his shoulder the melancholy smile that could be photographed as anything; to the last that smile played safe. “Mr. Terry, sorry, would you mind playing old New York songs, you know, 1890 vintage, someone’s just come in . . .” The smile turned smoothly commercial; Arturo broke off the Autumn movement in the middle; he gave the Boys a signal and wound up his knee for action again. “Af-ter the Ball was o-over. . .”
(Thank God for that, Mr. Terrill whispered; I never really cared for Debussy anyhow.)
Having bowed themselves under the portières and crouched themselves onto the ballroom floor, the Ballisters stood, like royalty. Envoys were quickly sent from all the separate groups. Mr. Whitman and Mr. Draper both hurried forward at the instigation of their wives, Mrs. Stanhope despatched Mr. Merriwell; the efficiency expert’s wife insisted on accompanying her husband (contact with people like the Ballisters was always reassuring), Mr. Bud Chapman had to drop his mental pinochle hand because Mr. Crawford scraped back his chair and said there were the grand old Ballisters; a Mr. Harrod whispered to his brotherinlaw that the Ballister house had eighty-seven rooms and can you imagine that grand old pair keeping it up even though the rooms were no longer in use and they were both too old to walk up stairs, that’s true aristocracy for you, Mr. Harrod explained to his brotherinlaw who was from Pennsylvania and not expected to know; farther on down the room gentlemen laid their sandwiches on plates and wiped their hands carefully before starting for the Ballisters; and in a corner by the music a man by the name of George Hervey Junior tried to look unconcerned while the male members of his party rose and left him sitting with the ladies, all because George Hervey Senior was a self-made man self-made so recently that his bank-account had scarcely had time to jell—and more than ever Junior was convinced that Socialism was the best way out.
“It’s people like the Ballisters,” Violet Draper murmured, watching her husband’s course across the room, “who restore one’s faith in life.” “They make all the sacrifices well worth while,” sighed Mrs. Whitman; “even a tragedy like poor Jim Fancher’s.” “Standards,” said Mrs. Draper, nodding, “it’s all a question of standards—and poor Jim Fancher had them too.” “In a broad way of thinking, yes,” replied Mrs. Whitman; “but principles—” “Standards are stronger,” said Violet Draper; and both ladies fingered their pearls and began to sing through closed mouths: “mm hmm hmm” to Af—ter the Baaall.
Upstairs in the library Merle whispered, “The Ballisters must have come. We really ought to go down.” But because Jeffrey answered nothing, she protested for him: “But not yet, not yet, in a moment.” Af-ter the Ball kept floating up.
“But look here, Firman,” Miles was saying, “what classes is the Magazine supposed to reach, that’s the point, the whole point.” “I think personally,” said Cornelia laughing, “that your Negro was a house-detective.” “No, he looked too much like one,” said Margaret; “a dark horse if ever there was one!” “only two classes,” Firman said “and no use trying to bridge them over” said a Maxwell “nor inventing smaller classes in between” said Little Dixon “because in a war after all,” said Cornelia leaning forward, “there can only be two sides” “the fellows in No Man’s Land in between are shot from both trenches” said Firman, taking Cornelia’s hand. “But intellectuals,” said Miles. “I think you’re very brave,” said Margaret, “to face a life like that; but what are you going to do about a personal life, Cornelia?” “Oh I’ll grant you that the intellectuals were born on an island of some sort, Flinders,” Firman said; “but is that any reason,” said Cornelia eagerly, “for never crossing over to the mainland? . . . Why I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Flinders, Margaret, what exactly do you mean, a personal life?” she said, absently stroking Firman’s hand.
“It begins to look,” said Al, “a bit like the last round-up taking place around the Ballisters. . . . So this is a revolution party, Miss Norah, is it? Well, I think it’s a pretty nice party because you’re at it.”
“I do wonder where my husband is,” said Norah politely smiling; “I hope he won’t forget to make his speech.” Al put a brotherly arm about her shoulder.
Ruthie Fisher caught her eye. Norah was absently smiling; but as she smiled her eyes seemed to make a quick decisive tour to every corner of the room; and returning, calm from their vain trip but still watchful, they encountered Ruthie Fisher sympathetically. At once the knowledge leaped in Ruthie’s heart: that Norah, like herself, awaited Jeffrey; that Norah’s heart beat just like hers; that Norah too, beneath her mild composure, knew that solemn anguish . . .
“Of course she knows about me, Lydia!” she said indignantly. “She’s no bourgeois, Norah and I are the greatest friends. Oh Norah’s swell,” she said in a burst of love, of loyalty, for Norah; “sometimes,” she added, feeling the solace of their combined pain and love, “sometimes I think I like her better than I like Jeff . . . if she weren’t a girl,” she finished honestly.
“Gosh! Fish!” Lydia said. “Doesn’t she care, I mean how can she be friends with you, I mean . . .” But for Ruthie Fisher there were in that room for the moment only two people, herself and Norah Blake; and in the whole world only three, herself and Norah waiting hand in hand like sisters, and beyond, somewhere elusive in space but still belonging vividly to both of them, their lover Jeffrey Blake. The nearest thing to peace that she had known all evening filled her.
The court of the Ballisters grew and the Ballisters came up to the shoulders of the first rank courtiers. The ancient Ballisters as they were called again although they were brother and married sister, had been wedded one third of their lives and widowed one third. This last lap that they were on was like a continuation of their childhood and it is doubtful if either remembered the married interim. They crouched and shoved through life together, equally in need of one another’s arms and valiantly “kept up” the grand old mansion in which (some seventy years ago) the Ballister children had played Hunt the Slipper: though they could no longer climb its stairs. Old Mr. Ballister was considered especially valiant because despite his years he kept his hearing; old Sarah Ballister was valiant because though deaf (or else remarkably absent) she conducted herself without ear-trumpets. They bowed and crackled now; said things like “well well, how is your grandfather, oh yes, he’s dead,” that were taken away by the first rank as very precious favors. The next rank came up as the first group settled on the outskirts and the little Ballisters shrank a little more and licked at their turned-in lips; the third rank pressed in close enough to see the velvet band that held up old Miss Ballister’s throat and then old Sarah Ballister murmured to her brother that she w
as tired and her brother said aloud that his sister was tired and everybody murmured of course, significantly and self-reproachfully, and sprang forward to lend the Ballisters arms across the floor. “It is not,” whispered one member of the cortège; “that eighty is so very many years; but it is so awesomely near the end of them.” And the band played Auld Lang Syne.
Arturo was not playing Auld Lang Syne for the Ballisters. He was playing it to Mary. He was lonely for Mary, he played to Mary sitting at home with a mending basket on her knee; or going in to change the littlest kid; or stealing a look at her fur coat hanging grandly in the closet. Very well, Arturo thought with dignity: let him be a minor artist; he was a major lover anyway.
The music went up the stairs in a slow crescendo, came and circled faintly in the library like a hurdy-gurdy sounding melancholy from the street. “I have always been” said Jeffrey (be still, my trembling hands!) “something of a lone wolf; even in my childhood.” He had almost forgotten Merle, sitting with his head on her lap and letting Auld Lang Syne stop his ears and brain. Now he brought himself to look at her. He thought she looked a little drunk, as though her mouth had slipped, her eyes were floating; all of her swayed like a plaster cast of Venus—if that were passion, he thought fastidiously, then passion was not becoming to her; but it looked more like despair. What on earth was he doing here, he thought, waking with surprise. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with Merle. He buried his hands in her hair to still them there. But his hands trembled, thinking of Elizabeth; his mind wandered, thinking of Elizabeth. (He recalled again how she had violently struck him.) It was like this always: when he was with one woman he would think of another. When he had lightly courted Margaret Flinders he had thought of Comrade Fisher; when he made love to Comrade Fisher he had lain and longed for Merle; and now that his fingers swept at will through Merle’s lovely cloudy hair he wanted Elizabeth Leonard. And when the cycle was complete, when he had won his way again around the cycle, there would be Norah again, his Norah, waiting: with whom at last he was at liberty to be himself. “I have almost always,” he said, “been lonely”; and heard his words mechanical and yet sincere, like the murmurous sentimental hurdy-gurdy from below.
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